Lothíriel
by Adelie P
Summary: Lothíriel of Dol Amroth has consented to marry Éomer of Rohan, perhaps to prevent a war over horse theft and perhaps because of other less political considerations. Yet their impetuous betrothal stands on a knife-edge and meanwhile, trouble is brewing in the Lands of the Prince.
1. Prologue

_A/N: This story is a sequel to "First Impressions" and "None of the Usual Inducements". I am trying to make it as accessible as possible on its own, but I think going back and reading the other parts of the series first will give you a better experience. However, if you are stubborn, start here, with which was once upon a time intended to be the prologue of the first installment "First Impressions" :-)_

 **Prologue**

In 2986 Prince Imrahil wedded Mírdis of Galibur near her home in the cloud forests high up in the Hills of Tarnost. Mírdis was neither as wealthy nor as nobly born as she should have been: the eldest daughter of a man who had come into an estate and title that but for the crooked paths of fate should never have been his. However, as Ivriniel observed wryly at the ceremony, beauty like that - black hair, olive skin dusted with freckles and black eyes that shone like jewels – seemed to render all such considerations banal, and at the time no one had raised either questions or objections. Her new sister-in-law turned out to be of a dreamy disposition, quiet and sweet-tempered, content with pottering about in the gardens and always drawn to the seashore. She loved Imrahil with almost childlike sincerity, and he in his turn was besotted and could deny her nothing.

Mírdis's parents, young and unschooled themselves, had taken only a lacklustre interest in their daughter's education, and the duties that now fell on her as a Princess of Dol Amroth puzzled her exceedingly. Ivriniel, who had been running her father's household for almost a decade, attempted to instruct her with limited success. Although Mírdis was not without a certain pensive intelligence and as compliant and thoughtful a student as one could wish for, she was easily distracted and had no head for business. She fulfilled her duties to the best of her ability when asked, was polite to visitors when she remembered to be present, but too often wandered off and withdrew into herself, forgetting all around her.

Ivriniel went through phases of despair, anger, bafflement and suspicion at her sister-in-law's air-headed nature, until at last grudging affection overcame every other feeling and she simply continued in her role as mistress of the castle in Mírdis's stead. She saw much of her gentle sister Finduilas in Imrahil's bride: Finduilas, who had faded under the burdens of the wife of the Steward and the shadow growing in the east, while Ivriniel stood powerless and railed against the world. Not this time. Mírdis accepted the arrangement without question and focused on her garden and other inscrutable pursuits.

Her most important duty Mírdis did not shirk, for an heir was born but a year after the wedding, and then another, and a third. Mírdis's sons brought her joy, earnest and tender Erchirion especially, but they drifted away from her as they grew older and she longed for a daughter that would be hers to raise. At last a girl came in the autumn of 2099. Imrahil was away when the child was born, but Ivriniel held her sister's hand through the night while Mírdis screamed and storm winds battered the castle of Dol Amroth. The babe came in the midnight hours, spent one restless day and night in the darkening world and died before her father could even name her. Afterwards, a melancholy seemed to settle on Mírdis that she could never fully shake. Even though outwardly she was much the same as before, there was an edge to her movements and she no longer shared her strange thoughts even with her family.

By the end of the year 3000 she was with child again. Lothíriel's birth was difficult, for the girl refused to come for more than a day and then near managed to strangle herself with the umbilical cord (Ivriniel later suspected she had been doing backflips even in the womb). By the grace of the Valar, Lothíriel survived and afterwards was never ill a day in her life, a loud and boisterous child, early to walk and early to talk. Yet from the first time she was placed in Mírdis's arms her mother withdrew from her, looking at the child as if on a stranger and then passing her to the nursemaid without further thought.

At first Ivriniel expected that Mírdis would take more of an interest as Lothíriel got older – it was well known that a difficult birthing bed could plague the connection between mother and newborn - but Mírdis's spells of abstraction only grew worse over time, and her daughter's enthusiastic exuberance was so foreign to her nature that she seemed always glad when she could hand over the responsibility of her to another. Lothi, she called her, as if even the child's name was too tiring to say.

To Ivriniel, Lothíriel was as much a source of joy as sorrow. She found the girl enchanting and affectionate, and loved her as if she were her own, but the staff pitied her, her grandfather was ailing, her father was often away and her mother simply did not care, so rules were seldom enforced and indeed rarely lain down at all. By the end of her second year, the girl already ran wild and unchecked. Inevitably, Ivriniel became her disciplinarian, while for attention Lothíriel turned to Amrothos, then but a boy himself, and more intelligent and charming than was good for anyone. They grew close, and Lothíriel had no trouble proving her worth as a co-conspirator, even though she was more than seven years his junior, for she never backed away from a challenge and got willingly involved in the most daring schemes.

Ivriniel – with regret and determination both – tried her best to imprint upon Lothíriel the limitations and expectations that came with her sex, but Lothíriel heard her without much interest. And why would she? Society was coming apart at the seams, and many expected Lothíriel might never leave Dol Amroth. Her mother's approval was permanently out of reach, and there was a war brewing that the people whispered they could not win. Of course, Ivriniel tried whatever she could regardless: it would neither do to give up hope nor to let Lothíriel get away with indolence. The girl's impertinent ways would have driven anyone to frustration; still, Ivriniel often rued those early years, when she tried every tactic of coercion and manipulation to get Lothíriel to sit down and attend to her lessons.

"Your mother will read to you as soon as you finish your letters, dear," said Ivriniel, crossing her fingers that she could prevail upon her sister to sit with her daughter at least for a little while later. And: "You will see her at dinner, Lothíriel. She'll be very proud of you for solving these sums." It worked for a while.

But Mírdis never remembered to read to her daughter and on most days did not bother to show up for dinner, and so after a while, her niece had just raised one precocious eyebrow at the false promises, pushed away the slate and ran off to play.

Ivriniel supposed her brother tried his best. These were dark times, and Imrahil was often needed in the field or at one of the coastal estates. He still managed to be closely involved in his sons' education, but was glad to leave Lothíriel's in her mother's hands (and thus effectively hers). He loved his daughter; there was no doubt about that, perhaps all the more for what she represented to him. Lothíriel, so hale, so whole, scaling the cliffs in pursuit of her brother, rushing through the palace in pursuit of a cat, seemed as unlike his melancholy wife and his lost melancholy sister as could be, the living promise of a new age. He did not see the frustration behind her wild ways, the brittleness of her bravura. He knew she could be contrary and disobedient, but to him they were signs of her strong spirit, a spirit that just needed harnessing so it could be put to good use. He listened to her complaints about her curriculum, about etiquette and ceremony with indulgence, often preferring to reason rather than lay down the law (Ivriniel always knew he would regret that down the line).

Mírdis, meanwhile, was fading further, in her own way. She was older now, but no less lovely, and to some men, the combination of her beauty and her pensive demeanour was magnetic. She had had admirers in the past – Dol Amroth as the site for the academy of the Swan Knights was overflowing with eager and concupiscent boys and there were always some who struggled with the discipline and sobriety of their education – and in her mildness she had at times been less discouraging than would have been wise. But this time it was different. His name was Camau, an ambassador and merchant from Umbar. He was young, handsome, bold, and he was there while Imrahil, by then the ruling Prince of Dol Amroth in all but name, was not. He would come for some imagined or inconsequential business with her, and would then spend hours in the Prince's garden whispering to Mírdis, telling her tales, laughing with her, flattering her… Mírdis insisted it was friendship all the while, but the servants talked, and then the esquires, and the people in the town. It had gone too far at this point and no good options were left to Imrahil: if he did nothing, he would seem weak; if he interfered, he would give credence to the gossip. In the end, he decided all trade business would be conducted from Bar Dúven instead, and Dol Amroth grew quieter and more isolated still. Mírdis never protested. She just sat on the shore, staring into the sun, the waves lapping at her feet.

In the summer of 3008, Imrahil and Mírdis travelled south for a council, a final attempt to negotiate a truce with Umbar, so the coastal lords could focus on the threat from the east. She had begged him to come; she often begged now. Camau was there, and after a day of covert glances and intense stares, the situation escalated. He came to Mírdis in the gardens and tried to force himself on her, but a guard had been watching. Camau was judged and condemned, and any chance of a truce was lost. In Umbar a different version of the story soon gained traction, and the rumours reached Gondor in due course. Despite her gentle nature, Mírdis was not popular: she was too solitary and too inattentive to have made many friends, and after that wagging tongues would not stay silent: they called her romantic, wanton and worse. She never left Dol Amroth again.

Ivriniel never knew how much Lothíriel heard of these events. She had been such a child then, so young to understand such grave matters. No one discussed it with her, and Lothíriel never asked any questions herself. Yet Ivriniel suspected Lothíriel knew much more than she let on, all locked away in that odd mind of hers. She was seven now, and expected to begin to learn how to manage a household, to acquaint herself with domestic tasks and the basics of etiquette. It was as uphill a battle as arithmetic and writing had been.

"I don't know why I need to learn all this," said Lothíriel, seething because Amrothos had just pronounced himself unsatisfied with the way she had mended his shirts and told her she had better fix it before she came out to play with them. (The boy was going through a hard time – too young to ride to war as his brothers did even though he could best both of them at swordplay - and his taunting of his little sister had taken on a crueler edge because of it. Still, Ivriniel was tired of Lothíriel's sloppy work and had decided to put force behind her nephew's gleeful edict.) "When I grow up, I'll just be beautiful, like mother, and no one will make me do anything at all."

The pronouncement had enraged Ivriniel. The thought of her niece in the sort of unequal marriage her brother and sister had got themselves tangled up in was unbearable: Imrahil loved his wife, but he could not respect her and it had cost them both. "You won't be," she had answered coolly. "With your features and figure you may hope to tolerable at best. Now sit down and do your work." (She had rather a lot to feel guilty about).

Another year passed, then two. Imrahil was needed ever more to defend Gondor against Umbar and Harad. The castle was often empty, and Mírdis got into a habit of taking long walks on the beach, until one day she did not return. Ivriniel, well-acquainted with her sister's habits, did not suspect anything was amiss until Mírdis failed to show for the evening meal. She asked around but none of the servants knew her whereabouts or had seen her since the day before. Greatly worried now, Ivriniel sent out search parties, but Mírdis was never found. Most believed the Princess had been caught in one of the treacherous riptides, as the summer had been warm and she was known to indulge in early morning swims, but there were other, darker rumours that seemed to gather strength from the rising Shadow in the east. It was the year 3010, mere months after Imrahil had succeeded his father as Prince of Dol Amroth, and Lothíriel had been nine years old, nimble as a reed, with her mother's small build, her father's dry humour and a fire that was all her own.

When Ivriniel had at last sat her niece down and told her with a heavy heart that now the traditional hundred days of waiting had gone by, there would be rites of mourning for her mother, Lothíriel had shrugged, said "very well" without interest and ran off to play with her friends; stable lads and scullions and young apprentices. Ivriniel had observed her at the memorial, certain that the grief would hit her sooner or later and determined to be there for her, no matter how recalcitrant she could be, but it had not happened then, nor in any of the years thereafter. Although her high spirits and tomfoolery frequently got her into trouble, Lothíriel grew up without major incidents, and as she aged managed to acquire a smattering of graces and courtly manners in spite of herself. She liked to laugh and sing and play, excelled in her dancing and riding lessons, scamped everything else and never shed a tear for her mother.

* * *

 _A/N When I wrote a first version of this prologue in 2015, back when I was still building the major strands of the narrative, I quickly realised it would be out of place and out of tone at the beginning of the story. I briefly considered it for the start of "None of the Usual Inducements", but then decided that it rightfully belonged to "Lothíriel". So here we are at last. :-)_

 _For those who have been waiting: I am sorry this took a while and I am sorry I have not yet responded to everyone's reviews on "None of the Usual Inducements". You all made me very happy. It seemed that many of you were in favour of seeing the first two chapters of "Lothíriel" sooner rather than later. I promise chapter one will follow very soon, in the next few days._

 _At the start of "First Impressions" I signalled that this story would be a little AU, because this Lothíriel is two years younger than her birth year in the appendices would suggest. My in-story explanation for this has always been that a scribe at some point mistakenly recorded the birth year of Imrahil and Mírdis's first unnamed daughter in the annals, and that is how 2099 crept into the genealogies of the House of Dol Amroth. Of course I could not mention that before without giving away this plot point._

 _Babies in fact cannot strangle themselves with the umbilical cord, but in the past, when infants often died or struggled during childbirth without us able to understand it, people believed that they could. It is still a common misconception._


	2. To Be Quite Perfect

**To Be Quite Perfect**

"Are you certain this time, my lady?"

Lothíriel bit her lip. She knew she was driving the staff up the wall, and that she was one change of heart away from another angry report or whispered insolence to reach her aunt's ears. But what up until yesterday had been nothing more than an afterthought, a single entry on an endless list of tasks, seemed now a momentous decision on which everything depended.

"Hold on, no, let's…. There are too many guests in the north wing already." Lothíriel bit her lip again. Yesterday she had instructed their housekeeper, Eithril, to prepare the regal suite for Éomer and his guard. He was a visiting king after all. But today after breakfast she had taken one look and immediately surmised it was wrong: yes, the suite was splendid, with furnishings plated in gold and inlaid with jewels, but the air was stuffy, the colours of the curtains would clash horribly with yellow hair and the windows faced north. She had thought the position of the room might add to Éomer's comfort, because Dol Amroth summers were hot and unforgiving to those used to cooler climates, but northern windows also meant no sea views and little light. So she had the bedding and additional furniture moved to a set of chambers on the upper floor, known as the blue rooms. They were close to her own quarters and those of her brothers, and often used to host family and close friends, comfortable, large but not ostentatious, and so they had seemed the obvious choice. But these rooms now appeared small to her, the furniture looked worn and the scent drifting in from the orchard garden below was strangely cloying.

"Let's have them in the grand suite in the west tower," she decided at last. Or should she put them in the east tower instead? It was cooler at night there and the sun would hurry the King of Rohan out of bed in the morning and they could explore the cliffs and the shore while the rest of the castle was still asleep… No. She was being ridiculous. The rooms in the west tower were lovely and had every imaginable comfort, with great bay windows that looked out over endless waves and the furthest horizon anyone would ever see. The only reason they were not used permanently by one of the family was because the violent sea storms hit the castle at full force on that side, flinging in rain and salt and ripping the shutters from their hinges. But it was not the season for that yet.

Although they did have summer storms occasionally. And the rooms were quite out of the way. Perhaps Éomer would think she was isolating him.

This had to stop.

"Yes, the west tower will do well. Take some of Amrothos's silk sheets for the bedding – I doubt they will find much use for these woollen coverlets. If I am needed, I'll be in the cliff gardens until dinner," said Lothíriel. _Doing absolutely nothing,_ she added in her head.

With a roll of her eyes, Eithril snapped the other servants to attention, and Lothíriel fled outside, through the courtyard and down the steps that wrapped around the castle and could be followed all the way to the bay below. The cliff gardens of Dol Amroth were connected to the Prince's garden by tunnels and perilous walkways, but Lothíriel seldom bothered with those, preferring to hop down from one rock to another, clambering along the cliff with practiced ease. She came at last to sit on her favourite promontory, and huddled in the shade against the rock. The sun was still low in the sky and already the air was near sizzling with heat. Some gulls flew overhead, and the waves roared below, but otherwise the world always seemed oddly still here, with the currents chasing away even the strongest swimmers and sailors. She just needed a few moments to herself. Their guests would not arrive until late this afternoon, and there was only one lesson planned after dinner. How hot it was today! She contemplated her heavy silks for a moment, then unlaced the bodice and stepped out of her skirts, revelling in the feeling of the wind on bare skin. It was yet early. No one would see. Then Lothíriel lay down on her stomach and looked over the edge, enjoying the pull of the depth, that moment of dizziness as her body simulated the long fall down.

She had been back in Dol Amroth for a month now, after spending most of the winter and spring with her father at their various coastal estates and properties. Imrahil had much to do: there were negotiations to conclude, treaties to revisit, putting his weight behind Elphir's policies. There had been one more attack, in the early spring, when corsairs had raided the silver mines in the Hills of Tarnost, a blow to the heart of the wealth of the region. Again, they had been miles from the sea, and again no one claimed to be the wiser. But their armies had been prepared and on alert this time, and they had retaliated swift and hard, managing a capture with little loss of life on their side. Uday had been the man's name. Prince Imrahil liked to keep things clean and simple (and profitable, if at all possible): lawbreakers and brigands in his domains faced either fines or death, depending on the severity of their crimes. Torture and maiming were outlawed (although not all of his vassals thought this was good – Lord Húron, for example, would have had the man questioned with a branding iron). But Imrahil had offered the man a plain deal: his life (on the caveat he would never again set foot in Gondor) in exchange for information. The man refused to talk. A day later, he was dangling from the noose. Imrahil did not like public spectacles, and Lothíriel had waited in her chambers, staring out the window, wondering what it would be like to know this to be the last sunrise one would ever see.

But that felt long ago now, and far away from here, the home of her childhood. She had been so excited to return; yet it was all much stranger and more troubling than she had thought. Her aunt seemed to treat her with even more condescension than before, and often stared at her in silent disapproval. Lothíriel had grown used to a certain independence over the past two years, but here the servants did not pay her orders much heed and her authority paled in comparison to that of the unbreakable and impeccable Ivriniel, the once and future Princess of Dol Amroth. She felt a stranger in her own home. All of her old clothes were too tight across her hips and bosom, and the first night she had been back she had spent going through her chests and drawers in bewilderment, reminiscing about the girl who had lived in these rooms and fit into these clothes.

The girl who was now engaged to the King of Rohan.

Most of the responses to the announcement of her betrothal to Éomer had been very gratifying. King Elessar had been pleased; Queen Arwen knowing. Her best friends, Raissel and Hethlil, were delighted, of course, and there had been the delicious envy of some other ladies at court, for Éomer was handsome, young and king, and considered a great catch. There had been nastiness, too. Lothíriel had made an enemy in Glavriel – she knew not quite why – and Glavriel was not without friends, all with eager tongues and fanciful minds of their own. Lothíriel was supposed to have a bastard child already at Edoras, or had tricked the King into her bed, or slept with one of his men, thereby forcing the King to offer for her. In her favourite version of the story, King Éomer was truly in love with her brother, Amrothos, and marrying her was simply an elaborate ruse to cover up their affair. It was so outrageous she half-suspected Amrothos had spread that rumour himself. Most people, however, seemed to take the match at face value: Éomer was a king, Lothíriel was a princess, he was a great friend of her father's and she was a favourite of the queen. Politically the match was so entirely obvious that it was almost dull. It was why Hethlil had advised she should not pay attention to any of the tales circulating at the court, even the ones that were true (and to be perfectly honest, some of those were worse than the gossip): if she behaved correctly, as the betrothed of an allied king should, the rumours would die down in due course.

Fortunately, there had been plenty of other matters to focus on. When her father had said he expected her to work, he had been quite serious. The first concrete task Prince Imrahil had set for her was to befriend Anneth, daughter of Angbor the Fearless of Lamedon, who was to marry Lord Húron of Methrast. Her father seemed to consider this to be a relatively simple request, but of course it was not. Anneth and Lothíriel had never been intimate, or even much liked each other before. Anneth was proud, very proud, not in the way that Glavriel was – all brass and money and good looks – but noble, composed and rather démodé. Like Lothíriel, Anneth could call on an ancient bloodline and high ancestry, and she chose to wear this with a certain magnanimous disdain, quick to set herself above her company and quick to feel for the less fortunate. She had been almost consolatory after Lothíriel's engagement was announced. It was obvious that to Anneth a marriage to one of the middle men was nothing to be proud of, even if it did make one a queen.

It was a delicate affair for as the daughter of Anneth's liege lord-to-be and the future queen of Rohan, Lothíriel could not afford to humble herself, and yet to build a true friendship based on mutual respect she could not simply force her way into Anneth's confidence. An opportunity presented itself with Hethlil's wedding in the early spring. Raissel and Lothíriel had decided to perform Hethlil's favourite lay together at her wedding feast, and were in need of accompaniment. Anneth was very proficient with the harp, decidedly musical and diligent about practice, and thus Lothíriel decided to approach her rather than one of her father's musicians. It would be a chance to get to know one another in an informal and intimate setting, for they would have to rehearse, and to include Anneth in their friendship without too much effort or ceremony. She made sure the invitation was too flattering and unassuming to resist, and sent a garland and ribbon with the message so that Anneth could match her and Raissel at the wedding. It worked splendidly and by the time Anneth came to Methrast, it had been quite natural for Lothíriel to reach out to her and befriend her. They visited the markets together and sat in Anneth's new salon to do their needlework with other local noblewomen – a perplexing development, but Lothíriel had grown to appreciate how Queen Arwen used the labour as a pretext for spending unemphatic time with the ladies of the court, observe their interactions and demeanour, and was by now quite grateful she had mastered the skill to a satisfactory degree. She was not sure how much these afternoons helped her father, and in what way, but at this point she would have pursued the friendship for its own sake, no matter how haughty and distant she still thought Anneth. Anneth was too controlled and well-bred to let her difficulties show to Lothíriel, but she did not need to. Húron was a harsh man, three times her age, and pride was a poor shield against loneliness.

Otherwise, Lothíriel's time was mostly spent running her father's household; or rather, various households, because they moved between his estates and castles throughout the winter and the spring. Some of their servants travelled with them, but Lothíriel also hired and trained local staff, making sure they knew her father's preferences, his favourite dishes and could anticipate his habits. They visited many of the lords of Belfalas and often received guests themselves, foreign diplomats and merchants, and lords and tenants beholden to the prince. Lothíriel tried her best to make all feel welcome and to look beautiful and poised as their guests rode up the lane to the estate, every flowerbed tended, every floor swept, every servant looking neat and tidy. From observing Queen Arwen, Lothíriel knew well the advantage of that first bedazzling impression when it came to negotiations.

It did not come naturally to Lothíriel to claim her position in this manner. She had had plenty of example in Arwen, but Arwen inspired awe without effort. Lothíriel needed a little more help: of Harad silk and the latest brocades from Minas Tirith, of the silver clasp of elvish make Arwen had gifted her when her betrothal was first announced, and perhaps a little kohl around her eyes and petals of safflower to stain her cheek and lips when the occasion called for it (her aunt would kill her if she found out her niece was painting her face, but _everyone_ did it nowadays and it really was a marvellous magic). She could tell her father took great pride in her appearance, and enjoyed introducing her to his vassals and trading partners, which in turn gratified her.

Not everything was perfect, of course. Looking well was costly and "never let important people see you in the same gown twice" was difficult when one entertained almost every day. Lothíriel gave the dressmakers quite a bit of business until her father had threatened that the next garment would have to come out of her dowry, and he would leave her to explain to Éomer what had happened to the lands he had been promised. When she suggested she could just work off her debt on a fishing boat, he pointed out that she would have to labour from dawn to dusk for two months at least to buy even a scrap of the fabric that had been used for her latest dress. That had rather shocked her; especially after she had done some research of her own and found her father's numbers were quite correct. She took a long break from shopping after that, and donated some of her older gowns to the alms-houses near the harbour.

And then there had been the occasion when some children had been playing with a long rope in the yard of Lord Húron's estate and Lothíriel had not been able to resist showing off. To her bemusement, that had actually won her more approval from Húron than anything she had done before. "Your sons will be strong warriors, my lady," he had said to her at their next dinner. Lothíriel could only hope he was referring to her athletic prowess, and not to anything else he might inadvertently have seen. She had realised all too quickly her favourite figures were not made to be jumped in a dress.

All the while, her father received regular letters from Edoras, sealed with the seal of the King of the Mark. They settled on a brief engagement. Another missive, and it was decided that the wedding would be in summer, and in Dol Amroth. Then some more to set the terms of the match, the dowry and the bride price.

There were no letters for Lothíriel.

After the third "King Éomer sends his regards", Lothíriel was well annoyed and when her father asked her if he should include a message from her, she asked him to tell King Éomer she looked forward to the wedding night.

Her father had been very vexed (men were so easily provoked). "If you cannot find anything appropriate to say, you may reserve it for your own letters."

Lothíriel had not realised her father did not know she and Éomer were not corresponding, and was too embarrassed to set him right. No formal greetings were passed on to her after that anymore.

She learned quite a bit about the content of the letters, however. It seemed Éomer had a lot of ideas of how she should spend their months apart, and many suggestions for her improvement and education. She was to learn the language of the Rohirrim, be introduced to their laws and customs, and to be taught the rudiments of weaving, the craft that the women of Rohan preferred to embroidery and which was very important to their culture. The most interesting request Éomer made was a wish for Lothíriel to learn how to defend herself in case of an attack on her person, and he urged Imrahil to employ a tutor to this end. She knew her father recoiled at the very thought, and was greatly surprised when he granted it. He must indeed love Éomer very much, for it was not often Lothíriel had seen her father yield, and only ever to his children.

If Lothíriel had been envisioning glamorous sword fighting lessons with Éowyn, she was disappointed. According to her father, it would take years for her to master the weapon to the extent that it would not be more of a hindrance to her, and she would likely never fully overcome the disadvantage of her height. Instead he engaged his old friend Hinnor, who had also been responsible for teaching her brothers the dirtier tricks of battle, those things they would not learn from training with the Swan Knights. He was to teach Lothíriel how to use a knife and incapacitate an assailant long enough so that she might get away. However reluctant her father might have been, it became fast apparent to Lothíriel that Hinnor took his task seriously. He knew her well and did not spare her, so that twice a week she retired to her room covered in bruises and scrapes. "You're dead, my lady," he would say, whenever she was too slow to respond, or let herself be disarmed, or was too hesitant to act on the openings he left her. It was very discouraging to know how quickly and in how many different ways one could die, and Lothíriel had soon grown playful in the face of his gravity. She'd survived so many deaths that she was sure she was immortal and why would anyone want to kill _her_ anyway? When Hinnor at last grew tired of her games, he had tripped her, pinned her to the ground, forced himself between her legs and slammed her wrist against the stone until she dropped the knife. He had kept her there for a full minute while Lothíriel's heart pounded in her chest and her vision blurred to stars. She had skipped lessons for two weeks after that. When she came back, Hinnor said nothing about her absence and was remarkably gentle with her for the full hour they were together. He killed her only three times that day. As if by mutual agreement, they never mentioned the incident to her father and Lothíriel applied herself with renewed determination.

Then there were the lessons that Éomer did not ask for but her father seemed to think she might need. He made her take up the harp again. This was no problem, for Lothíriel was musical and a natural performer, even if she lacked the discipline for accomplishment like Anneth's and preferred to sing. He arranged for a tutor to refresh her memory on arithmetic and Gondorian trade law. Yet the bulk of her additional studies were done under direct supervision of Imrahil himself. He set her a seemingly endless amount of reading: histories by Cedhrion, Awarthon and Eristor, texts on ethics and law, Vardamir's philosophical treatises and a tract by Maerion on justice. She came to dread, hate and love these sessions in equal measure; dread them, because her father always seemed to know exactly what she had read attentively and what she had merely skimmed; hate them because he asked her question after question until he had ascertained her understanding to his satisfaction and her head ached with the effort; and love them, because these intimate and precious hours with her father made her feel happier than anything in the world. Some of the texts were interesting, and she loved to hear her father speak and reflect on the choices he had made during his rule, but others were dreary beyond words. After one particularly painful lesson on the finiteness of time and space (Vardamir's segue into cosmological theory) Lothíriel had pointed out –with some resentment– that it would have been better to go and observe the horse breeding if she wanted something to talk about with her new people. Her father had returned – rather drily - that many of these texts and theories also formed part of the education seen fit for young people of her rank in Rohan.

She had asked Éowyn about it in a roundabout way, by including some droll complaints about the absurdity of the study in one her letters, and the White Lady had sent her back a missive in which she detailed some common arguments against Vardamir's position. Not quite what Lothíriel had meant. Her soon-to-be-sister was obviously spending too much time with Faramir. Still, unfortunately it seemed her father was right and the text was part of the curriculum at the court of Rohan as well.

The sun was now reaching its zenith and Lothíriel felt the lighter skin of her thighs and shoulders begin to freckle and burn. She dressed herself with some regret, and then used the tunnels to return to her father's courtyard.

She entered the castle and took the left passageway down to the kitchens, letting her hands run along the cool limestone walls. As expected, their cook informed her that the Prince would be taking his dinner in the study rather than the hall, so she helped assemble a tray and then carried it up herself. At first she had only done this when her father was in conclave, because she knew it pleased him to show her off to his guests, but now she did it whenever she could even when he was alone. It was a convenient way to ensure her father took at least one break during the day, and to make sure he ate well and thought of other matters than affairs of war and state.

When she entered, he set aside his papers and frowned at her. "Ah, Lothíriel. What's this about changing the menu? Mýlnith complained to your aunt that you had overhauled the entire second course and she would have to throw out all the buttered crayfish that had already been prepared."

Lothíriel rolled her eyes. She had expected this. "Shellfish do not agree with Lord Pelor, Ada. Unless you want him incapacitated for some reason, in which case I'll tell Mýlnith to put it back on the menu."

He waved it away. "Very well. But you have to learn to be more economical, Lothíriel. Rohan does not have the resources we have."

"I am sure you meant to say: thank you for remembering not to poison our trading partner, even though you were given word of his arrival only this morning."

"Yes, that was well remembered. But Pelor confirmed his attendance a week ago. I am sure your aunt put him on the schedule."

Lothíriel just nodded and pressed a kiss to the side of her father's head. She did not remember coming across his name before among the many instructions that ended on her desk, but perhaps she had missed it and there had been too many altercations with her aunt of late.

"Anyway, your aunt had the dishes brought to the orphanage in town, so they have not gone to waste."

"Oh, what a fine idea!" Lothíriel schooled her features into a pleasant smile, all the while scolding herself in her head. She should have thought of that! Why hadn't she thought of that?

"She did it in your name."

"That was very kind of her," said Lothíriel in a rather strained tone.

Her father reached for one of the rolls and Lothíriel perched on his desk to pour the wine. "How are your lessons?" he asked.

"Fine. Would you like to see the scarf I wove?"

"I am sure it is lovely."

It was, in fact, the most hideous piece of cloth she had ever held. "Oh, exquisite," she agreed.

"It will be very useful for you to speak some of the language already when you arrive in Edoras. The ceremonies there will be in Rohirric. Part of the wedding too, of course."

"Yes, of course," said Lothíriel, even though it was the first time she had heard of this and an uneasy spasm tugged at her stomach.

"I hope you are applying yourself."

"Ada-" began Lothíriel, desperately. "Did you have a chance to look at Belan's new pups yet? Feredir thought one or two showed promise for the hunt, and they are so adorable."

oOo

There were few texts on the Rohirrim and their language in Gondor, and even fewer men in Gondor who spoke it well, so after the worst of the snows had melted in Nínui, a tutor had come from Rohan to instruct her in the language and customs of the Mark. His name was Hereweald, an elderly, stern man with hair as white as snow and skin tough as leather.

Lothíriel had some experience with tutors and was usually quite capable of cajoling her way out of strenuous tasks. With Hereweald, however, Lothíriel found herself outmatched. Whatever she tried to distract him from his purpose did not work, and he seemed completely immune to her efforts to charm him. Lothíriel suspected he had been a very deliberate choice by Éomer.

It was not that she disliked him. He was a great storyteller, patient with her questions and he had a certain sardonic sense of humour that she could appreciate. It was just that she often got the feeling he was astounded by both her lack of talent and the depth of her ignorance.

He called her prince's daughter, and often just Lothíriel. For some days now, they had been working their way through one of the great poems of the Eorlingas, and Lothíriel was struggling to keep up and understand any of it. She could remember individual words, sometimes, but pressed and scrambled together they made no more sense to her than a month ago.

"No. No," said Hereweald, drumming his fingers on the table as she fumbled her way through another translation. "Listen to it once more, Lothíriel."

"Perhaps if we would write it down and I would have time to look over it at leisure..."

It was an argument they had had many times before. "Rohirric is not a written language."

"You are just determined to make this as frustrating as possible."

"Just pay attention, Lothíriel." Then he recited the couplet again:

 _syþð_ _an w_ _íges heard wyrm ácwealde_

 _hordes hyrde_ _hé_ _under h_ _á_ _rne st_ _án_

 _aeth_ _elinges bearn_ _ána genéðde_

 _frécne daéde_

Lothíriel strained to make out a few words. "What means _aethelinges_?"

"Of the prince. _Aethelinges dohtor_ ; that is you."

"Aha. And how would you say princess?"

"You would not, for there is no word for princess in the language of the Mark. In fact, there is no true equivalent for your prince either: an _aetheling_ is a nobleman, but his sons are not called the same. And the sons of the king of the Mark will not be _aetheling_ either, until and unless they come into lands and commands of their own."

So her sons would not be princes… this felt strange to her. How would they be known in Gondor? "But would they be, how do you say it, _mearc_ _geféra_?"

"Marshalls, yes, perhaps, when they are ready. It is not unlikely, for they will be the blood of Eorl, and that is a line of heroes, one that has never failed to produce strong and able warriors, and your ancestry seems also favourable." A fine concession if ever there was one. "But they will have to prove themselves and be deserving, just as Éomer-King himself had to."

"… And there is really no word for princess in the Riddermark?"

"No. The title does not exist and it would not be awarded through something as passive and commonplace as birth. Until a child rules his own lands and home, or leads an éored into battle, their status comes from their father alone. Our language reflects that."

It was obvious which system Hereweald believed to be the better. Éomer had been quick to use her given name as well when speaking to her – much too quick for her liking. She had seen it as a sign of his disregard. Only now did she realise how unnatural her country's courtesies must seem to him. "You know, you ought to tell people about this. So that they do not take offence when you fail to refer to them by their title."

That made him grin, his crooked teeth shining in his ruddy face.

"So what will the people call me if I am queen?" When. When she would be queen.

"Lothíriel-Queen – _cwen_ , in Rohirric - and _hlaefdige_ or _hlaefdige min_ is how you will be addressed after the coronation. Those close to you may use your given name in informal situations, if you do not object. Or you may come by other names through your deeds and reputation: Morwen _stíele_ _glése_ , and Éowyn was _seo_ _hwite hlaefdige_."

"So Éowyn was a lady before she wed."

"Ah yes. Éowyn was lady of the hall of Théoden-King, and so came by her title. Théoden-King the Eorlingas called Ednew, the renewed, and Éomer-King, Éomer Éadig."

"Éadig? What - the old?"

"The blessed," said Hereweald somewhat impatiently. "Old is _eald_."

"Ha," said Lothíriel, waving away her unfortunate mistake. "Blessed because of his exceedingly lovely betrothed?"

Hereweald raised an eyebrow at her jest. "Because he came unscathed through the three major battles of the War against the darkness."

Lothíriel sat a little straighter in her chair. These were her favourite stories. She had always known Éomer was a hero, and a great leader and warrior, but the songs the Rohirrim sang of their golden king were beautiful, filled with love and feeling, and spoke of deeds and honour beyond imagining. It never failed to give her a thrill of pride and excitement, because this man would be her husband and she had kissed him and he had looked at her with desire in his eyes... "Will you sing that poem for me again? Of King Éomer driving the enemy out of the caves at Helm's Deep?"

"Very well. But I will recite it in Rohirric. Listen closely and learn, Lothíriel."

Lothíriel listened as Hereweald sang, letting herself be swept away by the cadence of the words and by thoughts of Éomer – the way she had seen him spar at Emyn Arnen, the patchwork of scars on his back, his hair glinting in the sun, the way he laughed while he fought.

"I love that one," she sighed at the end.

"Very well. Now you, prince's daughter."

She sang it back to him in Westron.

"You sing well. This is good. And you have a good memory."

Lothíriel folded her hands in her lap, preparing to blush and be modest.

"But the poem I sang just now is an old one of an innkeeper who indulges in rather too much of his own brew. I changed only the melody and the name."

Her heart skipped a mortified beat. "… You must be jesting."

"No. It is rather a favourite with the King's éored, in fact. You may have heard it before when the men were in their cups, although they might have been reluctant to explain the words to you."

Lothíriel buried her face in her arms.

oOo

After supper, Lothíriel helped her sister and the beleaguered nurse tuck in her three nephews. Alphros now was four years old (almost five, in his own words). She had worried he might not remember her, but this was not the case: Galweth had shown him her portrait many times, and they had read her letters together, so Aunt Tiri was as dear to his heart as she had ever been. The thought that she'd be queen of the horselords fascinated him and he always asked her for a story before bedtime. Lothíriel was happy to oblige and shared with him the histories and legends she had learned from Hereweald. (With a few parts edited out and some exciting scenes of swashbuckling adventures added in. The tales of the Eorlingas were often sad and solemn rather than thrilling, and not quite suitable for her little nephew, however much he might disagree. She hoped Rohan would forgive her these creative liberties).

Then they retreated to the drawing room for a quiet evening. Pensively, Lothíriel poured herself a glass of wine and stretched out on the sofa next to her brother Amrothos, pillowing her head on his shoulder, which he allowed with good grace. In one moon-turn she would celebrate her twentieth name day. Before that she would be wed. That was young, very young for a Princess of Dol Amroth, one of the lines in which the blood of Númenor lingered still. But she was of age, and in the Riddermark girls as young as sixteen could be brides, mothers, and the country desperately needed an heir. That she would be expected to bear. As soon as possible. Her heart began beating more rapidly again and she sat up in her seat. It had been so natural to say yes last year. Because she had grown used to seeing him, and talking to him, teasing him. Because of how she felt when she thought she had lost him forever. And because of the difference a kiss could make (which was everything, a sea change, this wonderful, wonderful thing). And yes, Éomer had said he had not forgiven her – that he had offered for her against his better judgment – but at the time that had not felt all that grave or serious. It had seemed very feasible to be quite perfect in eight months. How could all those days have passed with agonising sluggishness, and yet feel like nothing at all?

"Father received final word on Éomer's arrival. He will be here the day after tomorrow," said Elphir with a smile as he entered.

"Oh." She exhaled, trying to push away her disappointment at once more being late to hear. One more day. Two more nights.

"Lothíriel? You don't look happy," said her eldest brother with some concern.

"I just wish Éomer had sent me word," she said in a rush. And then, to cover her hurt: "He is as dreadful a correspondent as you are, Elphir. I wonder if it is a firstborn thing."

"He still has not written to you?" Galweth asked with some curiosity and a hint of pique.

Lothíriel had confided in her sister-in-law when she had first arrived in Dol Amroth. Aunt Ivriniel had been very distant and she had missed the company of other women, her friends especially. She regretted the moment of vulnerability now, because she had much rather no one knew it bothered her, and was somewhat afraid her straightforward sister-in-law might see fit to confront Éomer on her behalf. "Hopeless, isn't it?" she said airily, taking another delicate sip of her wine.

Amrothos grinned and tugged at her braid. "My, sister, you are demanding. You have only been apart for eight months after all. A very short time compared to a traditional betrothal. And kings have not much time for letter writing. You know, Éomer has only written me two times since Midsummer, and never responded to my latest. He must be busy indeed."

Lothíriel was so aghast she almost dropped her glass. "Éomer wrote to you twice since Midsummer?"

"Well, he will be my brother soon. It is only right that he should keep up a regular correspondence."

She was tempted to smack him with one of the pillows. "He is _my_ betrothed."

"Possessive, too, I see. I can already tell you will make a real nag of a wife."

Lothíriel threw her brother a dirty look and began erecting a wall of pillows between them.

"Stop plaguing Lothíriel, Amrothos," said Galweth in her usual matter-of-fact tone. "Your sister is nervous, can't you tell?"

"I am not nervous," she heard herself say. "In fact, I greatly look forward to being rid of Amrothos once and for all. I shall have to make sure my first act as Queen is to ban him from ever setting foot in the Riddermark."

"It is natural to be nervous before your wedding, Lothíriel."

"Well, I am not," said Lothíriel again. She was … justifiably annoyed. At most. Actually, she did not care. No, not at all.

Galweth looked on her with pity. "Men, and especially ruling men, often make the most dreadful correspondents, dear, they get so busy."

"I know."

"Mind, I do think it is curious that he has not written to you at all."

"Ah, but has Lothíriel written to him?" came her brother's lazy voice.

"It'd be rather forward for her to initiate the correspondence," said Galweth pointedly. (That had, of course, not stopped Lothíriel from writing a pile of discarded drafts that had all ended in some fireplace or other.)

"I had forgotten dear Lothíriel is a model of modesty and reserve nowadays," said Amrothos. "Well, I reckon Éomer is simply careful to manage expectations early: it must be tiresome to take a wife who expects to be wooed and solicited all her life. It is what I would do."

This time Lothíriel did throw a pillow at him. Her aunt entered just in time to see it hit the carafe on the side table and spill the wine all over the carpet.

* * *

 _Author's Notes_ _:_ _The verses Lothíriel and Hereweald are studying are, of course, from Beowulf. I had to make my way through it when I was Lothíriel's age in my first year of university, but at least I got to see it written down. I have barely done anything with Old English since then, though, and had to be quite creative with translations, so let me know if anything seems strange._

 _Thank you all for the lovely responses to the prologue!_

 _And now, as I told you before, "Lothíriel" will be on hiatus. Don't worry: around 25,000 words of the story are already written, and there is an outline and an ending, so it will not be abandoned. I just need a break to focus on finishing my dissertation, and I want to have a full draft before I start uploading, so that when I begin updates again, it will be because the story is finished. In the meantime, I will be around, so feel free to leave messages, PM or get in touch. In fact, I encourage you to do so, because I love hearing from you and it is very motivating when people let you know they notice what you do (Lothi has the right idea here) :-) Thank you all for reading!_


	3. Foolish Preparation

_Dear readers,_

 _Lothíriel continues to be on hiatus, but I wanted to give you something. Thank you, Carawyn, for beta-ing for me all those months ago. More notes and an explanation will be at the end of the chapter._

 **Foolish Preparation**

Along the jagged coastline of Dol Amroth, sheltered beneath the cliffs, there was a single stretch of sandy beach connected to the palace via a set of overgrown steps from the gardens. Crawling around the rocks like a peach yellow snake, it was about a quarter of a mile long and so thin that during the high tides of the storm season it would often be completely swallowed by the sea. It was no good for swimming, because the bay here was plagued with jellyfish, but it was a fine place for sunbathing, and dipping one's toes in the water on a hot day. This early in the morning the sand was cold under Lothíriel's feet, and the rocks cast strange long shadows on the water.

Ever since she had returned to Dol Amroth, Lothíriel had come here at the break of dawn three times a week to meet Hinnor for her lessons. And here, far away from curious eyes, amidst the perfect calm of the morning waves, before even the first fishing boats took to the water, Lothíriel was taught how to escape the grip of an assailant, to wield a knife and where to kick to do the most damage. As if the very notion of a Princess of Dol Amroth learning how to defend herself was scandalous. As if the foundations of Belfalas would crumble if anyone found out she could fight back. Well, fight back a little, thought Lothíriel, as Hinnor once again managed to trip her and she fell to the sand with a dull thud. Her left knee, still scraped from two days ago, throbbed painfully at the impact. She rolled over as quickly as she could, but before she could scramble to her feet, she felt his large hand close around her wrist and she was dragged to the ground once more.

He loomed over her now: a broad chest and slim hips, a smile like a wolf, and keen black eyes. He had said not to hold back, and so she did not. She used the momentum the fall had given her to aim a kick to the back of his left knee. Her foot made contact, and for a moment he faltered, and Lothíriel reached for the knife she had dropped earlier when Hinnor had twisted her wrist. Not fast enough. Hinnor had already recovered and kicked the knife well out of her reach. With a triumphant gleam he bore down on her, and Lothíriel realised she was running out of options. She dug into the sand and flung a handful into his face.

It was never hard to imagine Hinnor as a malicious attacker. Even though she had known him all her life and he was a high-ranking member of her father's household, he had shown little interest in the family's domestic life, and even less interest in Lothíriel herself. He took his meals alone, and spent his nights at inns and taverns, talking softly over cups of cheap and watered wine. Indeed, Lothíriel suspected that her father would not appear half so all knowing if it were not for Hinnor's wanderings.

Lothíriel continued to hurl scoops of sand at him, the taste of damp and salt now heavy on the air. Hinnor used one arm to shield his face, but otherwise seemed barely slowed down. With his other hand he grabbed both her wrists and dragged them behind her head.

"I can do anything to disable you now. A kick to the stomach. A blow to the head. Or this." He yanked at her arms and dragged her across the sand and then the knife was in his hands and dangling over her eyes. "And what can you do?"

If she would try to get away now, she would break her own arms. "Insult your ancestors?"

"Nothing. You can do nothing."

A lot of Hinnor's training consisted not so much of practicing moves and kicks, but of instilling awareness: where was the danger, what could she use as a weapon, how could she turn the situation to her advantage. Lothíriel, who had always imagined she would be great at fighting if she could be bothered to try - and this was not groundless, for she was fast, agile and strong - was quite disappointed that Hinnor did not even think it worth trying to teach her how to wield a sword or win through strength of arms.

He had announced that today would be their last lesson. "Your wedding is less than two weeks away now, and you will want to look well. No scrapes anywhere. No bruises."

The speech had made her flush, to her private annoyance. She took pride in being unruffled about her wedding night, but the closer the day came, the more she felt she might well turn into a trembling bundle of nerves like any other insipid maiden before the end.

"Very well," had said Lothíriel, drawing a smirk from deep within. "What will we do?"

A lesson in humiliation, apparently.

"You made a mistake. What was it?"

"I let you disarm me."

"No."

"I let you disarm me twice."

"That was not smart. But before."

Lothíriel reversed her moves in her head. "I should have side-stepped left when you grabbed my arm."

"Wrong again."

"What then?"

"You attacked me."

"Was my balance off?"

"The attack was the mistake."

"What? But you told me to attack you."

"It was foolish to try. You should have run."

"That's the lesson?"

"That's it."

Lothíriel rolled her eyes skywards. Hinnor reached out his hand, and she took it and pulled herself to her feet.

"I thought you were maybe going to teach me something really neat," she complained while brushing the sand off her leggings. "Like how to deliver a swift, quiet and clean death."

"Do you want to learn how to kill, Lothíriel?"

The question sent a shiver down her spine. It took a few moments to formulate her response. "Knowing a clean and easy way to dispose of enemies seems a valuable accomplishment to add to one's repertoire. And the people say you know how to do it."

"People say a lot, but they are wrong. Death can never be all those things. There is no way to kill that is noiseless, fast and clean. Noiseless will be messy. Clean takes skill and strength. And the quickest of murders requires a physical precision and mental fortitude you cannot imagine. No, such lessons are not for you, Lothíriel. Better you run while you can, and leave the kill to that king of yours."

"You are making me feel very helpless."

"Not helpless. You have strengths of your own, and one of them is that you are fast on your feet. But while killing is hard, dying is easy. Great ladies from great houses are as mortal as anyone else, remember that."

"Very well. Thank you for the reminder, and the beating," said Lothíriel, still shaking the sand out of her curls. "Very educational."

"You are welcome."

"Although if this is the conclusion of our lessons, I have to wonder what we have been doing all this time."

He grinned again, showing a row of pointed, yellow teeth. "Do not worry. I do not like to waste my time." He offered her a flask of strong smelling liquid, which she refused as politely as she could. He shrugged and sat down, taking a few swigs and letting the surf tickle his bare feet. "I have trained many boys with less promise than you. You are quick, and better still, you are barely slowed down by pain. This is a rare gift, you know; you get that from your father. It may save your life someday. But bear this in mind: after our lessons, you may hold your own against one assailant, provided he is slow and stupid, and on a lucky day you might escape two. Yet the world today is full of men who have lived through very dark times, who know nothing but war games, and have scraped for survival every day from before you were born. That leaves a shadow and a cruelty that cannot be erased even by overthrowing the lord of Mordor. You are no match for that." He gestured, and she sat down next to him. Then he placed a hand on her shoulder so that she was forced to look him straight in the eye. "If ever you need to kill, the best advice I can give you is to strike true. But far better you stay where you are protected. Far better, when the time comes, to run."

It was the longest speech she had ever heard out of him by far. "I - thank you. I will remember."

He released her and Lothíriel drew a breath of relief. "You did well, my lady. Another might have gone crying to her father a few times."

She smiled ruefully, rubbing one throbbing ankle and then the other. "I did consider it, but I didn't think it would do any good. After all, it was he who asked you to teach me."

"Yes, well, I think he would have preferred it if I had set you some reading, and maybe taught you how to string a bow, or toss a knife or two."

That did sound more like him. Lothíriel wondered all of the sudden for whose benefit the secrecy and early lessons had really been. "I appreciate that you did not leave it at that. Thank you for all your time and advice."

"Thank me by staying out of trouble, my lady."

"Don't worry, I intend to. In fact I am rather good at staying out of trouble. We have just been through the war of wars and I never saw a single goblin."

oOo

Once again Lothíriel was engaged in battle against one of her wayward curls. While the rest of them had this morning consented to curl outward at the ends, framing her face just the way she liked it, this one had twisted and tangled its way around her ear and now would not be pulled down no matter how she tugged at it. It was very frustrating.

"Do you want to be a widow before you are a bride?" came her Aunt Ivriniel's voice. She was still tapping at the paper in front of her, on which Lothíriel in her neatest hand had written the schedule and budget for King Éomer's visit. "You know the cloud forests are insupportably hot this time of year. Your northern king may well burn to a crisp."

"No, he won't." He would be grumpy, but many things made Éomer grumpy. It never lasted long, though, and those lands and estates offered some of the most beautiful sights of Belfalas. More importantly, they were hers, bestowed on her at birth, a part of her dowry.

"It is a dreadful and inconsiderate plan," said Ivriniel. "And uncongenial besides. You cannot just leave for two full days while so many guests have come to Dol Amroth to see you."

"That is one of the best parts. It will be very pleasant to not have all these crowds around for a few days."

"No," said Aunt Ivriniel simply. "What else?"

Every morning after breakfast, Lothíriel came to Aunt Ivriniel's solar to go over the tasks for the day, and to discuss the preparations for Éomer's arrival. And every morning, Lothíriel went into these meetings with a greater sense of dread. "The schedule is in front of you, Aunt."

"What, this is all? You have planned barely anything. You insisted on doing this yourself, Lothíriel, and I decided to trust you, and this is all you have managed to do?"

"I did not want a packed schedule. I thought we could improvise."

"Improvise? What, are you planning to entertain a king with blindman's bluff and bowls?"

"No, of course not." Although blindman's bluff was an interesting idea. Lothíriel had only played it once, with some of Amrothos's friends in Minas Tirith. It was just a little scandalous, and therefore extremely enjoyable. Perhaps there might be an opportunity.

"So what then?"

Lothíriel reviewed her list of ideas for something innocuous. "I asked Amrothos to take us for supper at the harbour." Although she had not been able to squeeze a promise out of her brother. Not yet, anyway.

"And?"

"We should certainly go for a ride along the cliffs. Otherwise, I thought we could stay at home, mostly. As you said, there are a lot of guests for me to look after. I won't have a lot of time for excursions."

"But Éomer does. You think he is happy just spending all that time loitering after you?"

"I should hope so. He is going to marry me."

"Yes. So he will have you and your mindless chatter around for the rest of his life. But he may never come to Dol Amroth again."

"Of course we will come to Dol Amroth again. Dol Amroth is my home."

"Not anymore. And he is king of his lands, and if ever he has time for visits of leisure, he has a sister in Ithilien. Your place is by his side, and to keep his home while he is away. In fact, I think it is unlikely either of you shall be here again before your father dies."

It was too harsh a truth so early in the day. Numbness swept through her from a brief clench of her throat to a tingling in her fingers. The rest of Aunt Ivriniel's lecture faded to a faint drone in the back of her head. Lothíriel felt her eyes flutter shut, and she forced them open, forced them to roll in disinterest while she studied her nails. She did not want to betray any emotion and hand her aunt any more weapons.

It was difficult, though. Her aunt had always been rather strict, but before the reprimands had always served a purpose - or at least they had been well deserved (although of course, she never did feel that way at the time.) But there was a vicious edge to her aunt's words now that had never been there before, and no suppressed smiles or offhand affection. And Lothíriel could not figure out why, nor how to please. She had tried being meek, and she had tried being proud and defiant. She had tried styling her hair in a more conservative manner, and wearing elaborate gowns even to informal suppers, but Ivriniel seemed to be the only person in the world to think less of her the more time she spent on her looks - which was pretty confounding considering how she used to scold her niece for her unfortunate features and unkempt appearance.

Aunt Ivriniel seemed done talking at last, and Lothíriel took one halting breath, then pushed it away. "So what do you suggest?"

"There should be a boar-hunt. Perhaps the day before the wedding."

"Ada would never let me go on a boar-hunt."

"Indeed he will not. Besides, what would you do on a hunt? You never learned to shoot."

"Boar are hunted with spears."

"I am pleased you know that much. Anyway, the men would find it an excellent diversion, and Borphen says they are becoming a plague. They destroyed a whole field of crops near Grascove."

"Fine. If Éomer and my brothers want to wrestle angry pigs, they can do so. It does not need planning."

"And we talked of an archery tournament."

"No."

"Lothíriel…"

"Archery tournaments are a bore."

"You should not think only of what would divert you. You should think of your lord husband's entertainment first and foremost. He is our guest after all. He might well enjoy an archery tournament."

"Archery tournaments are the most mind-numbingly dull affairs in the world to watch. And he is king, so that is all he could do."

"A demonstration of skill is very pleasing to a practiced eye."

"No, it isn't."

"He will like it."

The most irksome part was that Lothíriel suspected her aunt might be quite right. Éomer would enjoy an archery tournament. He could watch the Ithilien Rangers for over an hour without seeming bored in the least, and that was not even a contest with real stakes. But she would be bored out of her mind, sitting on the dais surrounded by ladies complaining of the sun, the wind, and their poor eyesight. "Oh very well. But then we will definitely go to the interior."

"I thought that discussion was closed."

"If he gets to do something he likes, I get to do something I like."

"You are behaving like a child. No one will thank you for it, assuming you do survive the heat and the wildlife."

"We'll bring ice, to serve with the cider."

"And did you add that expense to your budgets?"

Lothíriel had not. "I don't think we should be stingy." Ice was dear in Dol Amroth, for it had to be transported from far away mountains under a hot sun, and then kept deep in the caves in great clay containers where the humidity and the heat would not be able to reach it.

Aunt Ivriniel stared at her, eyebrows raised in displeasure. "How much, Lothíriel?"

"Well, the total will be a little higher than I put there then. Oh, and we would need a few additional carts. But it will be fun."

"The least a man may expect of a wife is that she can balance his books."

"I can balance the books."

"It is no good knowing how to do the sums if you forget to note half the expenses. Wealth is not infinite, Lothíriel."

"Is this about yesterday's supper again?" This morning, at breakfast, she had received a bouquet of wildflowers from the children at the orphanage in front of all her family. Amrothos had laughed at her, and Elphir - unbearably condescending as he sometimes got when he was stressed - had seen fit to chide her again about the expense. (Which Lothíriel thought pretty heartless considering how much the children had apparently appreciated it.) "Anyway, who knows better than I that wealth isn't infinite? I am constantly out of pocket money."

"I wonder if you can hear yourself sometimes."

"Of course. It is how I know what I am thinking."

"I can see you're very amusing this morning. Let's round this off quickly, shall we? And then we will finish inventory while your sister takes the boys for their fittings."

"Yes, aunt." She folded her hands demurely into her lap.

"You may go to Tawar-in-Anor provided you find a suitable escort and redo the budget. You will regret it, but you may go if you must. And you will discuss the archery tournament with your father. He already had some ideas for it. That's all, Lothíriel. Shall we go?"

"Father's rooms need fresh flowers, and I thought I would see to the hall as well."

"You may do that first, and then join me in the pantry."

"Yes, aunt."

"And do not forget about tea with Lady Eglanil and her daughter this afternoon."

"Oh, blast, those two. Can I bring my mending?"

"The sheets? You were to do that yesterday."

"I ran out of time."

"No, Lothíriel, I will not have you sitting there with a pile of old linen at your feet. You must do it tonight after supper."

"But that's when… Oh well, perhaps Maeneth can do the sheets."

"Maeneth has plenty of tasks."

"But…"

"Are you ill or infirm? No? Then there is no reason to pass it off to someone else."

Which meant she'd either be sitting in her room alone tonight - too dull to consider - or she'd have to take her mending along to the drawing room for their nightly drinks and games, where Amrothos would undoubtedly tease her for her domestic efforts, for trying to please their aunt, and for her crooked stitches. In truth, Lothíriel was finding her brother hard to deal with at the moment. He had always plagued and teased her, but her ability to endure it and shrug it off had somehow decided to abandon her in these weeks before her wedding.

Galweth had confided to her one night when they were putting the children to bed that she suspected Amrothos was being more than usually obnoxious because he found it hard to see Lothíriel growing up and maturing, and was afraid of losing her. But when she had confronted Amrothos with this theory, he had laughed so long and hard that it took all her self-control not to slap him. She had not talked to him for two days after that.

"That is all, Lothíriel. See to your work."

Before her aunt could change her mind and call her back, Lothíriel leapt for the door and ran out into the hallway.

Of course, Lothíriel had planned to help with inventory, as she had promised. It was important, said her aunt, for a lady to involve herself in these matters personally. It prevented dishonesty, and showed the lady of the house was not above getting her hands dirty, without resulting in actual dirty hands. However, after she had finished decorating the hall with fresh flowers, her old friend Eradir came to find her. He was a groomsman now, and a self-satisfied one besides, for he had travelled with her father and, in his words, seen and learned many things unknown to this southern backwater. He teased their old stablemaster Fanuiben, who had no patience with the follies and arrogance of youth and their newfangled ideas, and often paid the price in thrashings and long hours sweeping dung. And although Lothíriel was sure this latest altercation was entirely Eradir's fault again, it was true that he alone had worked in Minas Tirith while the Rohirrim were there, and she had put him in charge of preparations. Thus, she went down to the stables and coaxed Fanuiben until he was ready to make the necessary adjustments, inspecting all her father's chargers and Galweth's palfrey for good measure.

By that time she figured her aunt would be done counting jars of honey, and she had remembered she had promised Galweth to help her let out some of Alphros's clothes. She was just sorting through the basket to determine which to send away, and which she could herself fix tonight, when she heard the bell ring for the midday meal. She washed her hands and face and hurried down to the hall, and only when she sat down she remembered tea. There was no sign of an angry Aunt Ivriniel, nor Lady Eglanil in the hall and Lothíriel breathed a sigh of relief. Indeed, the high table looked quite desolate.

She slid into her seat beside Amrothos and asked him where father and Elphir were.

"Mmm, Lord Mithion had a personal issue to discuss with them over dinner."

"Tell me?"

"I will, for it involves you; or rather, your future homeland. His sister has a son with a man of Rohan. The lad is eighteen months old now, and as white and gold as a lily."

"Lady Mithwen? I had not heard she married a Rohir."

"She did not."

"What – a bastard?"

"One of the many born after the war."

"But why did she not wed as soon as she found out she was with child? She would not have been the only one."

"The lady did not wish to," said Galweth. "Apparently, before they indulged in … relations, she had been given to understand that he was a nobleman. Only afterwards did she learn, to her horror, that he was a mere a shepherd from the East Emnet."

"And they say the Rohirrim never lie!" said Amrothos. "It seems there is an exception when an irrepressible bosom is on the line."

Lady Mithwen did indeed have the most impressive décolleté Lothíriel had ever seen.

"It was not so much a lie but rather a misunderstanding, or mistranslation, as I understand," said Galweth. "The man claimed to have his own herd, which Lady Mithwen took to mean his own éored. Anyway, you can imagine Lord Mithion's embarrassment. He demands compensation for his sister's loss of honour."

"Oh, Éomer will just _love_ having to deal with that as soon as he arrives," said Lothíriel with some delight at the gossip.

"And how would the future Queen of Rohan handle this delicate issue?"

"The future Queen of Rohan is far too amused at the notion of Lady Mithwen married to a Rohirric herdsman and chasing sheep across the muddy plains to be entirely objective in this case."

Lady Mithwen, she knew however, would never marry a herdsman, no matter how entertaining Lothíriel would find such an arrangement. (Mithion was one of her father's vassals; his sister a widow of almost thirty-five. Mithwen had travelled in Harad and Anórien when she was younger, considered herself very worldly and was terribly condescending for it). And it was not right to part a child from his mother, but Lothíriel could not help but think that the boy might be happier growing up a shepherd in Rohan rather than the bastard son of a barbarian in Belfalas, which is certainly how he would be regarded by most of her countrymen.

"Anyway, your father would prefer to have it settled before King Éomer's arrival," said Galweth.

"I can imagine why. More than likely Éomer will tell Mithion to stuff himself if he comes to him for compensation," said Amrothos. "He'll consider a nephew with strong Rohirric blood as payment enough. The woman was no maid, nor unwilling."

"It's what he will think, but he won't say it," said Lothíriel with a vague gesture. "He values the friendship with Gondor too highly to risk a squabble over such a trifle. He will want the best solution for the child without ruffling any feathers. He's more skilled at diplomacy than you think."

Lothíriel caught Galweth's knowing smile before she discreetly hid it behind her goblet, and puffed a cheek. Ever since Galweth had gone with her to buy some new gowns in preparation for Éomer's arrival, she had decided Lothíriel was "endearingly besotted". Which was unfair. Yes, the pile of rejected cloth had been rather large, and in hindsight she probably should not have snapped at the tailor for even daring to suggest that dowdy lace, but anyway - the right gown for the right occasion was important, whether affairs of the heart were involved or not.

"Well, Elphir definitely wants to avoid ruffling any feathers. He hopes Éomer may arrange an acceptable marriage for her in Rohan. But father is determined not to pander too much to Lord Mithion's whims."

"Elphir is a fool if he thinks a nobleman of Rohan will be jumping up and down to raise a herdsman's bastard child, especially if he gets Lady Mithwen in the bargain. I think Éomer should take an interest in the child, make sure he knows there is a place for him in the Mark when the time comes, and that he is valued by his father's people. As for her, she ruined her own prospects. She should thank her lucky stars she has a brother able and willing to take her in. She can't expect more," said Lothíriel.

"Rather harsh, Lothíriel. And no words of censure for the father?"

"What censure can there be? He did not lie. And don't forget Mithwen's bosom," said Amrothos. "More experienced men have tumbled straight into that trap."

Lothíriel spoke without much thought: "Éomer will tell him it was badly done, and he'll spend the next few months curled into a tight little ball, staring into the fire, and thinking himself a terrible excuse for a man."

"And so sounded the queen's judgment," concluded Amrothos with a grin.

"Oh hush," said Lothíriel. "Will you go for a ride along the cliffs with me this afternoon?"

"No."

"Please?"

"I'm not available. I do have stuff to do on occasion, you know."

Lothíriel wondered what this "stuff" could possibly be. It seemed to her that nowadays Amrothos spent an awful lot of time in his chambers doing exactly nothing at all. "Galweth?"

"I'm afraid I can't; there is too much to do and Amros is so fussy lately. Don't you have lessons, Lothíriel?"

Yes, weaving. Which she already loathed. She gave her head an impatient shake. "Riding is more important, isn't it? I haven't been riding in weeks."

"Don't worry, dear," said Galweth, patting her hand. "You are an excellent rider, and it's not a thing one just forgets how to do."

oOo

To Lothíriel's utter and rather selfish delight, she found her weaving tutor had left her a message that said she had sadly fallen ill and could not teach today. Lothíriel spent some time herself tying random knots on the loom until it seemed like she had made an effort, and went by the kitchen to ensure Madam Cíleth was sent plenty of fresh fruit and broth. Then she retrieved her book from her chambers and wandered down to the shore. The surf was higher than this morning; there must have been a storm further out at sea and the waves rolled across the sand in rapid swells, then pulled back and disappeared into a surge of foam.

She did not get to enjoy it for long. Dull footsteps and the rustle of silks announced the arrival of Aunt Ivriniel. Black curls streaked with silver were contained in a net set with rubies, and her dress was the colour of an early sunset.

"Where were you this morning?" she said before Lothíriel could rise to greet her.

"At the stables."

"A fishmonger arrived with thirty barrels of red snappers, and I was left looking like a fool for I knew nothing of this order. I did not even know the deal you had made with him, so I just paid what he asked - a gross overcharge." She pushed a slip of paper into Lothíriel's hands.

"It seems right," said Lothíriel, reading quickly. "That is the price I negotiated."

"It is too much."

"It's what I paid in Parth Laer, and that was further from the coast too."

"This order is ten times as large as the one you would have made there. You should have asked for a discount. And you should have been here to receive it. Like you should have been there this morning. You are ducking your responsibilities left and right."

"I was not ducking my responsibilities. As I said, I was needed at the stables to ensure everything is in order for the Rohirrim's arrival."

"That is not your job."

"Eradir asked me. Fanuiben was unsure how to house the stallions."

"There are hundreds of knights and squires here who have ridden to war with our allies from Rohan, and spent many months in the field with them. Surely you are not suggesting you know better than them based on the few afternoons you spent fooling around with Éomer-King's squire?"

"Let's not phrase it like that," mumbled Lothíriel and Aunt Ivriniel shot her a glacial glare. Lothíriel had never been serious about Aldor, who was but a boy, but she had certainly encouraged his crush, which was both fun and useful to her, and over the course of their acquaintance had allowed him a few liberties that were best not spoken of again, considering she was about to marry his king.

After an awkward moment Lothíriel spoke again: "I do not know if I know better than them, but I do know that _I_ know, so I thought I would just… make sure." She knew that most of the Rohirrim were far more likely to worry about their horses' accommodations than their own. She also knew that Éomer had given horses to her father, whereas he had refused to even consider a trading contract with most other lords of Gondor because they failed to meet Rohan's standards. She had to make sure Dol Amroth's stables could not disappoint.

"I am sure your input was of crucial importance. And now I find you lazing about yet again. I suppose I should be thankful you are not in the nude this time."

"I am… what?" stammered Lothíriel.

"Did you think I was not aware of your little escapade yesterday?"

"I just took off my dress. I was still wearing my under garments."

"How could you do something so immodest and unthinking?"

"No one was around to see!"

"Then how did I hear of it?"

Lothíriel did not quite know how to answer that. "If they did see, it must have been from very far away."

"And were you planning to go around parading unclad when you are in Rohan?"

"Unlikely. It is quite cool even in summer."

"Lothíriel!"

"Aunt Ivriniel!" she returned in the same tone, and her aunt's eyes narrowed.

"Impossible girl. If you decide to laze around for a morning, other people will need to pick up your tasks. They do not go away just because you are sunbathing."

"It is called delegation."

"It is called indolence."

"I had no tasks."

"Lady Eglanil and her daughter have been asking for you since yesterday."

"Oh, them."

"What, ladies are not deserving of your company and graces? They are mere women; they are used to waiting?"

That chastened her. "I do not think that. You are right; I should have welcomed them, and I should not have forgotten about tea today."

Aunt Ivriniel was apparently no longer to be appeased by an apology, or simply chose to ignore her. "Another matter. A small troupe of Harad players arrived at the gates. They said they had come at your invitation."

Lothíriel clapped her hands in excitement. "They are here? Oh good! They are to join us in Tawar-in-Anor, I thought."

"I had not even given my permission for that excursion until this morning."

Lothíriel was just as good at ignoring her Aunt. "It will be so interesting for King Éomer and his men to experience some traditional music of the south."

"That is your plan?"

"Yes indeed. If that was all, Aunt, I suppose I will go and mend those sheets now. My apologies again for the misunderstandings."

"Hold on, Lothíriel. What kind of traditional music did you have in mind?"

"Oh, the usual."

"Do you mean to tell me you plan to dance?"

Lothíriel took a few reluctant steps back towards her aunt. "And what would be so bad about that?"

"Lothíriel. If you had intended to dance I can tell you now it is not happening."

"But-"

"Your father will not allow it. I will not allow it. And I can guarantee your betrothed would not allow it."

"You don't know that. You barely know him. He likes it when I dance."

"He may like to dance with you, but he will not appreciate you dancing like that."

"A demonstration of skill is very pleasing to a practiced eye," she echoed her aunt. "Dancing is a display of skill."

"I forbid it."

"But-"

"No but. Forget this childish nonsense immediately. Your prancing about will give no one any pleasure. Like you are some seven-year old schoolgirl showing off her first accomplishments."

She felt her face flush a hot red. "It is not like that."

"He is already promised to wed you. There is no need to display your wares like that."

"Display my wares? It is just a dance. Amrothos says it is fine when we are in private company."

"Your father would not say it is fine. You know this very well."

"Well, soon it will not matter what my father wants.

"You are still under your father's authority."

"Yes. As are you. Do you ask him for permission for everything? To play your melancholy tunes on the harp or the citole? Do you ask him for permission every time you come down and berate me, or set me more pointless mending just to make me miserable?"

She knew she had gone too far as soon as she had said it. She bit her lip, already imagining herself thrown into the dungeon until the very hour of her wedding. But then Aunt Ivriniel turned around, skirts swishing in the wind, and strode off without further words, leaving Lothíriel to stand on the shore alone.

For a moment, Lothíriel was unsure what to do, and wondered whether she should call after her, and make amends. Instead she tiptoed a little further into the water, and bent down to catch the rolling waves between her fingers. Everything she had done since she had returned to Dol Amroth somehow seemed to make her aunt despise her more. And that just when she had thought they might get along better now that she was grown, and soon to be a queen. Just when she had cherished a secret hope Aunt Ivriniel might be impressed with her and all she had learned. After two years at Queen Arwen's court and keeping house for her father, Lothíriel had only to look at a list of guests to see the table setting in her head and determine a menu the whole assembly would enjoy. Yes, Lothíriel knew she could still be absent-minded, but she had also found she had an excellent memory for names and faces, for remembering a man's likes and dislikes, for recalling tidbits of gossip whispered over needlework many months ago. She knew when an affair should be extravagant and deliberately complex, and when to prefer intimate and simple, and what entertainment would be suitable. She was, in fact, fairly sure she was good at this, but through Aunt Ivriniel's eyes her efforts appeared insufficient, unsophisticated or -at best- barely acceptable.

The surf played around her calves. There was a chill in the water now, and the winds blew from the north, clouds tumbling across the sky. What would Queen Arwen do? Her kindest and her best, always, no matter the adversity. She was Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, and would do no less. With a heave and a sigh, she made her way back towards the shore, her feet sinking deeper into the wet sand with every step.

Her skirts looked somewhat stained and too late Lothíriel realised the salt had ruined the fine satin, probably for good. Another blunder to add to the list. This was the problem: when Arwen was her best and kindest, she was perfect. When Lothíriel was her best and kindest, it was all crooked stitches and spoilt silks. With a groan of frustration she pulled her curls back, tied them into a messy knot, turned around once more and dove headfirst into the waves.

She resurfaced with a yelp a few counts later. The jellyfish bobbed past unhurriedly and disappeared behind a rock as Lothíriel grasped at the red lash bursting out in welts across her throat.

oOo

 _Author's Note:_

 _So, what happened after my last, hopeful update on my profile page? Well, I found out I was pregnant (our first)! My husband and I are thrilled, but unfortunately the pregnancy itself has been far from easy. I had bad morning sickness all through the first trimester, which slowed me down, and then at the start of the second trimester developed some rare complications and ill-timed medical emergencies that saw me in and out of the hospital for a few months. I am home now, but on modified bed rest until the baby is ready to be born, and I may still need to have surgery shortly after._

 _Anyway, the story has not been abandoned (there is a first draft:_ _the story will consist of 23 chapters, excluding the prologue and epilogue_ _), but life can throw some twists and curveballs. I miss you, wish you all the best, and will be back with you after I have climbed this mountain. :)_


	4. On the Subject of Marriage

_Another chapter for you all to make up for the long silence, and to celebrate the official start of my maternity leave today! Thanks again for the wonderful beta, Carawyn._

 **On the Subject of Marriage**

The council chamber of the King of Gondor was part of the royal apartments on the second floor of the House of the King. It was sparsely and rather erratically furnished: a large wooden table covered with maps and small pieces of silver to symbolise the Gondorian armies, some assorted benches and chairs, a rug so faded with age that the patterns it once held were now impossible to discern. Its high ceilings and white walls made it feel less confined than it should, but still it was a room more suited to intimate consultations than extensive gatherings. Today, however, it was made to host rather more men than usual and the smell of wine and perfume seemed particularly pervasive. There was one large window, offering a view over the Pelennor, with a bench hidden in its recess, but that coveted seat had been taken by Lord Torthon, forcing Éomer to make do with the plainly carved armchair that was usually occupied by the Steward, at the right hand side of King Elessar of Gondor.

Among the other men present was Erchirion of Dol Amroth, the most openhearted of Imrahil's children, who like his cousin Faramir was calm and ponderous but lacked the latter's flair for leadership. Aside from a brother in arms, Erchirion was one of Éomer's soon to be brothers-in-law, and Éomer liked him well, even if he was a bit grave sometimes. To Erchirion's left sat Húrin of the Keys, old, careful, with bristling eyebrows and a white moustache that curled proudly up. Across, leaning against the southern wall, was Mablung, a captain of Faramir's rangers, tall and dark and seething with barely suppressed fury. And in the corner, resting back into an armchair with one leg crossed over the other, sat Selas, advisor to Lord Dume of the Blue Tower of Harad. He was handsome, almost pretty in the way southern men could be, clean-shaven with high cheekbones and eyes the shape and colour of almonds. As always, he was speaking with great passion, drawing out his vowels as if he so loved the sound of his own voice that he needed to make the most of every syllable.

"Pah. Pah, I say. What does it matter?" Selas tapped his foot to punctuate his disinterest. "In all likelihood they were some heedless youngsters who buy into the old belief that an arrow through a Gondorian heart will see a man a king in the afterlife. The lure of a blissful death after all that we have suffered is strong for some, especially the young."

"My heart just bleeds," said Lord Torthon sardonically.

"It is not easy to find oneself on the cusp of manhood and conquered."

"Conquered? Your people invaded us. Those conquered lands belong to Gondor. Ithilien belongs to Gondor," said Mablung with some vehemence.

"Ah, my friend. Who can own the land, truly? What is land even but a collection of dirt and rock and trees? And if we move these parts, is it their old location or their new location you would lay claim to? It is a philosophical question; we could expostulate at length some time. Either way, we were here long before you landed on our shores."

"I have no interest in your philosophy. And that is a misrepresentation of the facts."

"First come, first claim. You may hold the lands by rights of conquest; and this is a right we respect, but do call it by its proper name."

"Our ancestors…," began Lord Glavrion.

"Friends," interrupted Aragorn. He looked weary, and Éomer noted he was on his third glass of wine. "We will never resolve this dispute by trying to untangle the strands of history. We all expressed a wish to move forward last year, or have you forgotten?"

"How are we supposed to move forward if they cannot stop attacking Ithilien?" asked Mablung.

Selas made a flippant wave with his fingers. "As I said, a small group of fanatics. Undoubtedly they will die out naturally. Or not quite naturally, if the strawheads continue to cut them down without asking questions." This directed with a side-eye at Éomer.

"Those bastards fell upon _us_!" Mablung slammed his fist against the wall before Éomer could even rise to respond.

"Did they? Well, either way, it is in the past, and the past is a kettle best left unstirred," said Selas with a shrug, having apparently retreated again into his philosophical mood. "Eight moons ago they fell upon you. Thrice eight moons ago you fell upon us. Is one event more relevant than the other here and now?"

Mablung murmured something incomprehensible.

"Let us leave the what and the why for the moment," said Húrin. "What I would like to know is _how_ they moved so far into Gondorian territory without being discovered."

Selas spoke somewhat ponderously. "I am sure I do not know. Perhaps they got lost and lucky."

No one dignified that with a response.

"To me this is also the most salient question," said Erchirion. "Two things seem evident: someone familiar with Emyn Arnen and its patrols showed them the way, and the intent was to sow discord rather than death."

"One of Faramir's rangers left suddenly just a couple of days before the attack," said Lord Torthon. "Could he be our man?"

"I think not," said Húrin. "Everything about the attack seems foolish. Their information, if any, must have been limited. I am still not sure whether it was planned at all. It was very unlikely we would miss the trick with the sigils. It was very unlikely they would be able to do much damage, attacking in broad daylight. If they knew the way to Emyn Arnen, then why not try to sneak up to the house at night? Set it afire, hit at the very heart of the place? The steward's infant son was there, for goodness sake."

"We almost did miss the trick with the sigils," pointed out Erchirion.

"It was still absolute folly, and a waste of life."

Aragorn spoke again. "Quite right. Unfortunately even if confusion was not their goal, they seem to have done a very effective job nonetheless. Selas tells me our friend Lord Dume was upset to have his intent questioned."

"Meaning he was probably involved," said Mablung. "Can we not just overrun him as well?"

Selas's eyes flashed. "That sounds like a declaration of war, _friend_."

"Peace, gentlemen. Dume denies any involvement, most vehemently. We are relying on him to guide the troops across the desert as he has chosen to rely on us to restore the peace in the south, at great risk to himself. It can only be done in good faith."

Éomer moved a white pawn next to the black tower, and then moved it back again. For the past ten minutes he had been playing with Aragorn's chess set, not in any meaningful way, as he never had learned how the game was played, but he liked the feel of the intricately carved pieces, the tiny silver sails of the ships. The conversation was pointless: Aragorn and he had gone over all this at length already. Next spring there would be a campaign into southern Gondor to reclaim those contested lands south of Ithilien and settle the matter, and Éomer would fulfill the oath of Eorl once more. He was ready to ride to war, and come what may in those lands below the river. They would be wary of betrayal, but whenever the King of Gondor and the King of the Mark had ridden into battle together, unfavourable odds seemed a minor inconvenience. Besides, Aragorn had traveled extensively in the south, and knew much more about the lay of the land than their Haradrim allies suspected he did. And yet the Lords of Gondor found it somehow necessary to have the exact same conversation fifty times.

"I still think we might opt for a diplomatic solution with the other tribes," muttered Húrin.

"Diplomacy? Ha! The Haradrim are not men of their words. Vows and honour mean nothing to them. I say we burn them all out. Those lands belong to Gondor, rightfully and historically," said Lord Glavrion.

Selas spoke with emphasis. "These threats are unacceptable."

"They are," Aragorn rose to his feet. "Lord Glavrion, our aim is not to overrun Harad, nor to exact vengeance for your personal losses. It was a grievous tragedy, but suffering is not alleviated by more pain. If you cannot accept this, I would ask you to leave these chambers now and return to Garth Vaegorod indefinitely."

Chastened, Lord Glavrion flexed his fingers and sat back down in his seat.

"My King, I wholeheartedly agree with your intent. But we cannot trust them. Pardon me," added Húrin to Selas.

"If you were held accountable for all the crimes of your kinsman…"

At this familiar turn in the conversation, Éomer rolled his eyes. Within five minutes, Lord Glavrion would begin another tirade against the southerners and their inevitable corruption, Selas would once again turn to philosophy, and Lord Torthon would finally lose his patience with the lot of them.

"My lord Húrin is right. We risk too much. Lord Dume crawled to Gondor for aid, and now he cannot give us proper assurances."

"His Radiance is risking his very life to help his new friends from Gondor. But guests to the desert who view their guide with suspicion often find themselves forever lost in its shifting sands."

"Is that a threat?" flared up Mablung.

"An observation. Strangers in strange lands would do well to acknowledge their ignorance."

"Your lands were nothing before us. You did not even know how to work or farm them," cut in Lord Glavrion.

"And I suppose you know how to farm in the bleeding desert?" said Lord Torthon having apparently lost his patience somewhat ahead of schedule.

A tiresome lot. It would have been hard to remember he was not in Gondor on business of war, except that his true purpose was all he could think about during these meetings. He had come to take a wife. And not just any wife, but Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, a highborn determined little flirt who had a penchant for making all the wrong decisions for all the wrong reasons. The woman he had fallen in love with.

(Or, love… He still wondered if she would have the same hold on him if he had just lain with a wench or two, or taken up a lover instead of forcing himself to endure the humdrum of celibacy after he was named king of the Eorlingas. Anyway, it was too late for that now. He should have thought of it before he went to Emyn Arnen to be surrounded by the alluring court flowers of Gondor.)

As ever, thoughts of Lothíriel drove him to a distraction filled with both sentimental pleasure and doubt. Because he missed her, had painfully missed her: her cheerful presence, those bursts of consideration and tenderness, that sensational body. For many weeks - and still, in unguarded moments - his mind had recalled her lips on his, her hands running down his back, her tongue exploring, curious and eager… On the other hand, there was a creeping dread that he had made a grave mistake.

"You may tell your master our plans are unchanged." Aragorn's calm voice cut through his reverie. "Any information he has on the attacks in the inlands of Belfalas of course we would be glad to hear."

"Pah. Corsairs. What would we know of their movements? They are not our kinsmen."

"You are cut from the same cloth," grumbled Lord Glavrion.

"Pardon me, friend, pardon me." For the first time it seemed as if Selas's indignation was unfeigned. "The people of the Blue Tower are of the blood of the Ancient Ones, direct descendants of Yoru-Ala of the seven thousands times seven miracles. These bastard pirates are not our cloth."

Lord Glavrion remained mercifully silent, and Éomer pushed the black knight a few squares to the right.

"When may His Radiance expect you?" asked Selas, having recovered himself.

"Early spring. Before the equinox."

Eight months. One more winter of peace, and then war, a war further from home than any man of the Mark had ever been, and therefore already worthy of song. Was it unkingly to be eager? Some of his councillors – slow and careful men – seemed to think so. It would sit much easier with them if Lothíriel would be with child before then, although Éomer planned to lead his éoreds into battle regardless. Still, if they could conceive an heir before it would certainly prevent some fussing. Indeed, both the Mark and Gondor agreed to rush the engagement for that very reason. Seven months was considered a reasonable timespan for conception, with there being no cause to doubt her fertility. She had three brothers, three nephews, and she might be small, but she was strong and hale. And winters at Meduseld were long and cold and quiet, so there would be plenty of opportunity. With a babe with his blood in the world, he would no longer be so imprisoned in his own home. He retraced his line of thought with an uncomfortable twitch of his shoulder. It seemed cold, calculating. He would leave Lothíriel to face the birthing bed alone, and if he should fall… Anyway. A child would silence the nay-sayers, too. And there were plenty of those.

He did not know who had first spread the story of that night near Pelargir, and did not ask because he did not know quite what he would have done with the knowledge. Too many men had known, too many men had witnessed it for it to be reasonably kept a secret. And of course people would speculate about his bride, the new queen of Rohan; he could not prevent this anymore than the passing of the seasons. But in some hands, especially the hands of those who were not too happy with getting a Gondorian for a queen, the story became almost sinister: a story of trickery and wilful disobedience, of negligence that had led to a horse's death - an ill omen, they called it, a sign of faithlessness and perversity.

Of course, there were happier stories as well: stories of Lothíriel's beauty, her tumbling skills, and her merry nature. The extent of her dowry - another secret that the whole of Edoras had known about within a day or two - swayed some of the more pragmatic of his people (whatever their new queen might turn out to be, at least there would be ample recompense). And Éothain, ever one of her steadfast champions, was convinced the people just wanted to see him happy, and would easily dismiss last year's tragedy as a misunderstanding or youthful indiscretion if it turned out Lothíriel made him so. Still, it would be a rough start for his Lothi. She would have a lot to prove, and a lot of hearts to win over. And Éomer was not sure how Lothíriel - so young, so beloved by her father and brothers, such an easy favourite of the King and Queen of Gondor - would cope when she was made to feel less than welcome.

Meanwhile, the talk in the room had moved to the finer points of strategy, which seemed at least a little more constructive, so Éomer tried to focus. Húrin was glancing in his direction rather nervously; perhaps because Éomer's silence unnerved him, perhaps because his youngest and exquisitely beautiful daughter Raissel was having at this very moment an assignation with Éothain, the captain of Éomer's guard. They had fallen in love last year, and this was their first meeting as a betrothed couple, all correctly supervised by the girl's mother of course. He could not help but grin again at the thought, because they were so well suited, and yet entirely not: it was hard to believe that his friend, a humble farm boy from the Mark with not a pony to his name for most of his life, could have made a bid for the hand of arguably the most beautiful girl in Gondor and won it. Yes, the father had been hard to convince, but timid Raissel had turned out to be remarkably determined, and Éothain predictably shameless and persistent. He himself had intervened on their behalf, granting Éothain the lands he so deserved, and giving him a title to appease the Stonelanders, even though it would be meaningless in the Mark. Here at the courts of Minas Tirith Éothain was now known as Lord Éothain of Béamsceadu, and that was that.

"There is a natural harbour here, and here, and the cavalry can advance along the coast…"

"Ho! What happened to the fleet?" said Lord Torthon.

Erchirion looked all around and then his eyes settled on Éomer. "It seems the King of Rohan found a different use of them. Those ships do not belong on the chessboard, brother. You are playing with our navy."

"What?" said Éomer, sounding like a fool even to his own ears. "Hum… excuse me."

"It is all a mess," complained Lord Glavrion. "Where is the Prince's flagship?"

"At E4. Checking the white king, I believe," came Erchirion's amused voice.

"No matter," said Argorn, rising from his seat. "It is late. We may resume our conversation the day after tomorrow. My lords, you are dismissed."

Éomer made to get up but Aragorn motioned for him to stay. Erchirion gave him a sympathetic smile as he closed the door behind him, as if he was being held back to be scolded.

"You seem distracted, my friend," observed the King of Gondor once they were alone.

"You know I am not one for these endless talks. Just tell me where to charge and when, and I will be there."

"I don't doubt it."

"It is as you say. Do I like this Lord Dume? No. Do his ideas align with mine? No. But I am beginning to believe we may work together even with those who will never be friends."

"Such as Dunland?"

"They're rats. Every other word they say is a falsehood. This is actually so. I have a new advisor with Dunlending blood, and he claims it is an expected part of the negotiations; that his people find joy in concocting the most outrageous tales of drama and hardship, and creativity and feigned emotion is rewarded in the shape of a better deal, even if both parties are perfectly aware the lie is a lie, and the story is a story. It is a twisted system, of course, for those who suffer the most hardships often lack the skill to express it in flowery terms. But it is their way, and we try to wade through the mire for the sake of peace. Besides, it is not as if all elements of Gondorian culture are entirely unobjectionable."

"Such as what?"

Éomer sniffed. "Lord Glavrion's perfume."

"Ah. So that is why you cast such longing glances towards the window all the time."

"It's pungent. What is it meant to be – roses dappled with orc sweat?"

"I believe it is meant to be pine forest and dried apple."

"Send three men drenched in the stuff into the desert and we will need no further army."

"That is a solid plan. I will tell my lords immediately."

"You are welcome. Of course I am still happy to help you clean up any southerner who has the wit to plug their nostrils."

"And are you similarly ready for your nuptials?"

That," said Éomer with a sigh, "is a whole different battlefield."

"Not a very encouraging analogy."

"I suppose it is not."

"You are nervous."

Éomer did not like the word nervous, especially applied to himself. Even though he was undeniably that. Nervous. "Aye. I do not know how we will work. Sometimes I feel I barely know her at all."

"And yet you have spent quite a lot of time in each other's company, living under the same roof, sharing every meal; first a month in Edoras, and then two months in Ithilien. You have travelled together, and feasted together. Granted, it is not an acquaintance of sixty years, but it is far more than most couples before they pledge their troth. You know her moods, her preferences, her habits," said Aragorn with a grin. "I hope you like chatter."

Éomer grimaced. When Lothíriel was cheerful, she was quite capable of keeping up an endless stream of conversation on almost any topic, including the weather. She did not require much of a response either. Most of it was insipid, pointless and hardly worthy of a response anyway. And that was also why he loved it, really. It reminded him that there was time and space for insipid conversation and pointless argument.

But then there were those spells of abstractions when she did not even seem to hear what was going on around her. And her tendency to conveniently forget important tasks she considered mundane. "I know her, and yet not. She has queer moods sometimes."

"Ah. Well, she is a woman."

"Thank you, but you may keep your platitudes to yourself. They are decidedly unhelpful."

It came out sharper than he would have liked, and Aragorn regarded him with shrewd eyes. "Hm. I wonder if your choice met with much opposition?"

Éomer stood up, the desire to feel the steadiness of earth underneath his feet suddenly overwhelming. He paced up and down the chamber. "Some. Relations between our countries have improved, but there are still some who fear that Gondor's influence may become too great, the blood of Eorl too diluted or some such nonsense. And then of course there are those who remember my grandmother."

"But Lothíriel was at Edoras before. Surely they know her not to be another Morven Steelsheen."

"That is true, and she is remembered kindly. She was undemanding, especially compared to some of the elves and lordlings you brought, enthusiastic about everything and even befriended my cook. She left a favourable impression. Mostly."

"Mostly?"

"It is common knowledge I banned her from entering the stables for the duration of her stay." And unfortunately there were some men who had remembered their king's furious order that the 'pesky hoyden of Dol Amroth' was not to go near the horses again. Had he known he would end up bringing Lothíriel home as his bride, he would never have phrased his command like that. Hopefully Lothíriel would never find out.

"You banned her from the stables?"

"I am surprised you do not know." In curt words, Éomer told Aragorn of their quarrel on the road to Edoras, when Lothíriel had stood on the back of Aldor's horse, a charger who had served as one of his remounts at the Pelennor, and refused to step down. It seemed so long ago now. "I expected her to apologise, or at least confront me. Instead, she spent the entire duration of her stay plotting her way into the stables without my permission. She succeeded, of course. Fooled my squire into believing she knew elven magic or some other nonsense."

Aragorn laughed. "I had not heard that story. But this sounds like Lothíriel."

"And then I could not contain all the stories and rumours."

"Rumours?"

"Of events that transpired here last year."

"I see."

Éomer cleared his throat but Aragorn interrupted him. "Don't trouble yourself. I know the whole story."

"Then you may understand why there are questions."

"I do understand. And yet you chose her. And in the end very decisively, if I may say so."

"I knew what I wanted. My people are not in love with her."

"So you expect Lothíriel will meet with some hostility? Did you discuss this with her?"

Éomer made a vague gesture. He did not want to go into that. To Aragorn he would surely sound like an adolescent boy.

"Well," began Aragorn slowly. "Politically Lothíriel is a sound choice, even with the opposition. The recent wars have proven how much the Mark and Gondor need one another. Faramir married the highest lady in your land, and you will marry the highest lady in ours, excepting of course my daughter, but I do not think your advisors will be ready to wait thirty or forty years."

"Forty, eh?"

"Perhaps fifty," said Aragorn blankly. "Besides, Imrahil's cavalry is second only to yours, and close ties with Dol Amroth can only serve you well. Lothíriel's dowry is extensive and, from what I hear, sorely needed."

"Most do see it that way. Although some managed to even grumble at that. Lothíriel's dowry is so lavish, especially compared to our customs, that some think it a way for Gondor to buy the Riddermark."

"Buy the Riddermark!" said Aragorn, annoyed. "Whatever do your people imagine we would do with all that empty grass? Farm it?"

"They fear their independence. Many of my people are optimistic and open to change, but there is a vocal section clinging to tradition and what is known after years of upheaval."

"And then a Gondorian Princess who takes a tumble off her horse while fleeing through the woods in the dead of night seems just another outrageous import."

"She disobeyed her father and disdained me, and her horse died for it. Did Imrahil tell you what happened?" Éomer asked abruptly.

"No. I had it from Lothíriel herself."

He was surprised. "She confided in you?"

"I am afraid I questioned her a little before I gave my blessing. Forgive me, my friend. I wanted to make sure Imrahil had not forced her into accepting your suit."

"You think he would do such a thing?"

"Not consciously, no. But I know this match was a cherished wish of his. He reads minds as intuitively as you read hearts. If we know what to say to achieve the result we want, it becomes very difficult not to say it."

"I do not think he reads Lothíriel all that well," mumbled Éomer mostly to himself.

"Well, Lothíriel has a mercurial mind. I am sure your marriage won't be dull. Indeed, I think it may be very good."

"So you think well of her?"

"Why not? She has been very loyal and sweet to Arwen. She is not prone to those particular evils ladies of the court sometimes are: she is not jealous, or mean, or overly affected. She is a little vain perhaps, but so are many women upon first discovering they are beautiful. She is young, although not wholly without wisdom. And she has courage, the most important virtue of any king or queen I would say, for without it, all other virtues can be overthrown just when they are sorely needed."

"She is daring, certainly." Reckless. Could anyone be truly brave if they were reckless?

"You know, I met Imrahil a few times when he was a young man. He was impulsive, rash, a true pirate prince of Dol Amroth, and all charms and graces to every woman who crossed his path. There is no doubt Lothíriel is her father's daughter."

"It is hard to imagine."

"Life made him wiser, and more cautious."

A thought tugged at the back of his mind. "Did you ever meet his wife?"

"Mírdis? Aye, once. She was a rare beauty; the Jewel of the South, they called her. Imrahil had to have her from the moment he laid eyes on her. I am hardly in a position to fault him for such a thing."

As if on cue, a knock came at the door, and a moment later Arwen Undómiel stepped into the room. Still the fairest woman he had ever seen, and ever would see, Éomer found himself momentarily at a loss for air and words.

"Forgive me my intrusion," she said in her melodic voice. "How went the council?"

"Well enough. Indeed, I thought you might have joined us. You would have been welcome."

"Thank you, but no. I did not feel I would miss much. How many more ways could there be for our dear Selas to needle Lord Glavrion, and for Lord Glavrion to respond by thumbing his history books?"

Éomer felt a rush of sympathy for the Queen of Gondor.

"You are not wrong. Well, the die is cast, and the alliance stands," said Aragorn. "There are yet some decisions to be made tomorrow, but mostly of a logistical nature."

"You may inform me after, so I can begin planning the organisation of the supplies. I cannot join you, I'm afraid, with Raissel away and Feiril as yet untrained."

"Nor will I join you," said Éomer, coming to a decision. "I will leave on the morrow."

"I see," said Arwen with a smile. "Then perhaps I should leave you now to finish your strategies talk and have your dinners brought here?"

"No, I think we are done here," said Aragorn. "We had long moved on to weightier topics. We were talking of marriage."

Arwen smiled and sat down on the bench that Erchirion had vacated not long before. "I see. We will be so sorry to miss yours, Éomer, but two months is long to be away, and long to be on the road for Edlenneth."

"I understand. I feel I can barely afford to travel to Dol Amroth myself, even though the wedding is my own. Besides, I am greatly honoured you will come to Edoras for the coronation, although I am sure you will be missed, especially by Lothíriel."

"Oh, not all that much," said Arwen, her eyes sparkling. "She wrote me that it was very generous of me to at least give her a chance to be the most beautiful woman at her wedding."

"She wrote you this?" said Éomer, half outrage and half laughter.

"And very prettily, too. But the message was clear."

Aragorn grinned as he polished his pipe. "Indeed, brother, I am sure Lothíriel would have been fairest to you in any case?

"Oh no," said Éomer. "There is no right answer to that. I am done comparing beauties. I have learned my lesson."

oOo

When Éomer returned to the apartments that were his to use whenever he stayed in the white city, he found Éothain leaning against the wall outside, and beside him in the doorway a maiden of almost unearthly beauty with thick, inky black hair that fell down to her waist and curled at the end. This was Raissel Húrinsdaughter. Éomer had gotten to know her as kind-hearted, naïve and unschooled, but in possession of unexpected reserves of courage and strength. She had worked in the Houses of Healing during the siege, and had not hesitated to give her heart to Éothain, despite the difference in rank and the fact that the marriage would take her to a new land that she had never even had a chance to visit.

She was also one of Lothíriel's dearest friends.

"Lady Raissel," Éomer bowed. "It is good to see you."

"My lord," she beamed as she performed a curtsy. "May I present my mother, Lady Rones?"

Indeed, Éomer had met Húrin's wife before, and the obligatory courtesies were smoothly exchanged.

"I owe you my deepest thanks for the honours you have bestowed upon Éothain, my lord," said Raissel now. "And for supporting our betrothal. I've been so very happy." She did seem for a fact very happy, and more confident than he had ever known her. Otherwise she was much as he remembered: huge grey eyes in a perfectly formed face, flawless fawn skin and a smile that was both shy and dazzling. It would take her but one of those to charm Éothain's whole village, he was sure of it.

"Yes well. That title is conditional. If it goes to his head, I expect you to put him in his place."

Raissel giggled. "I will do my best, my lord. You must look forward to seeing Lothíriel! I'm sure she has missed you terribly."

"Raissel told me she will be in Dol Amroth for the wedding," said Éothain. "Travelling with another acquaintance, in fact: the Lady of Waterrush, formerly known as Hethlil of the Hills."

"I shall be pleased to see you both, as I am sure will Lothíriel."

"We are leaving by ship from Minas Tirith tomorrow, and then riding up from Linhir," said Raissel excitedly. "I've never ridden for more than a day, so I suppose it will be good practice!"

"Have you ever visited Dol Amroth?"

"Never. But I am eager to see it. I hear it is Gondor's most beautiful city, and it will be my first time at the sea. They say the waves have the power to change all hearts."

Éothain grinned at her. "Sounds like a dangerous place. Perhaps we shouldn't go, if it may put the state of our hearts at risk. I rather like things the way they are."

"So do I. But I will chance it if you will," said Raissel with a blush.

"Pray excuse us, my lords," interrupted Lady Rones. "Raissel, if King Éomer has returned from the council, your father will soon be home as well. It is time for supper, and to finish your packing."

They exchanged farewells - Éothain kissing his betrothed's hand in the Gondorian manner with great aplomb – and then watched mother and daughter glide away down the hall.

Éomer turned to Éothain. "So I take it you had a pleasant afternoon? How do you find Gondorian courtship?"

"Somewhat less inexplicable than I thought it to be this morning. It was, in fact, one of our main topics of conversation."

Gondorian courtship for a fact was insane, in Éomer's opinion. As he had experienced it, for the most part young men and women mingled quite easily in most straits of Gondorian society; dancing together, feasting together, spending long lazy summer afternoons by the riverside in mixed company while employing all the regular tactics of flirtation. Of course, meeting a woman alone was frowned upon, but private moments in the garden were easily stolen. But as soon as a couple got engaged – the moment in the Mark when everyone tended to ease up and allow the lovebirds more leeway than before – courtship and interaction became highly ritualised and, more importantly, strictly supervised.

"This is what I found out," said Éothain as they sat down to a simple supper. "In Gondor expressing an intent to wed and then having relations constitutes a binding legal contract in and of itself, without a need for witnesses. This was the practice for many generations. Over time the period between the betrothal and the marriage became the time to negotiate all necessary terms between the families, but some young couples had trouble waiting and would hurry matters along, causing all negotiations between the respective families to be rendered void. This was, of course, considered inconvenient; hence why the couple is now watched closely until the conclusion of negotiations and the signing of the contracts in the presence of witnesses – the marriage ceremony so to say - to prevent them from taking matters into their own hands.

"I see. So I suppose you and Raissel were made to sit nine feet apart, and talk about the weather, all carefully scrutinised by her mother?"

"Ah. Fortunately, Lady Rones is an easygoing and very amenable woman. We talked pleasantly for some time, and then she sat in the antechamber with her needlework while Raissel and I were in the solar. The door had to be open, but we still had a decent bit of privacy."

"I wonder how it will be with Lothíriel."

Éothain's grin was rather smug. "Nothing so simple, I'm afraid. No matter the high regard I hold the Amrothians in, I would describe none of her relatives as easygoing and amenable. Especially not the Princess Ivriniel, whom I suspect you will be dealing with."

Éomer imagined sitting across from Lothíriel and her aunt, sipping tea, and talking about what? Lothíriel and he had never been very good at talking when there was no kissing or undressing involved.

"Of course, Lothíriel is a natural rule breaker," continued Éothain, guessing at the train of his thoughts. "You may find yourself married sooner than expected."

oOo

It was after supper, but the light still seemed as bright as it had at midday. Éothain had gone to check if all was ready for their departure on the morrow when Éomer was startled out of his reverie (still Lothíriel, now lingering on the pleasant) by a knock on the door.

"The Princess is here to see you, my lord," announced the attendant Aragorn had forced upon him.

"What?" said Éomer with some alarm. "How?"

Yet the man had already turned away, by now used to being immediately dismissed.

A moment later a woman with long golden hair swept into the room: "Éowyn!"

His face must have given him away because his sister made a short harrumphing noise before she sat herself down on his desk. "What - not pleased to see me?"

"The fool announced the Princess and I thought…"

"I see. Already my cousin has replaced me in your affections."

He grimaced. "I am always pleased to see you, but you need not have made the journey. We were about to see each other in Dol Amroth."

"Yes, I was told you could not be bothered to stop in Ithilien, so then I thought I had better come to you."

"I already trespassed on your hospitality too long last year," he said diplomatically. "Where is my nephew?"

"At home, with Faramir. Don't worry, you'll see him soon."

He felt a surge of joy and affection at the thought of his sister-son, although that was quite inexplicable, because last year in Ithilien the boy had been little more than a weeping bundle of smells.

"I wanted to see you once more before you were swept up in wedding preparations. I have heard it will be quite the affair. Every lord or lady who can attend will attend, if they were lucky enough to receive an invitation."

"Excellent," said Éomer, who had begun dreading the drawn out formal pageantry ever since his first exchange of letters with Imrahil.

"Ah! But at the end you will be wed, and may whisk Lothíriel off to the Riddermark without any further obstacle."

"No obstacle indeed."

"Oh, who cares what some staid old misers have to say about it?"

Unlike Éomer, Éowyn had little patience or sympathy for the people of the Mark who would prefer to turn back time and pretend the strange alliances and friendships of the Ring War had been nothing more than a temporary intrusion.

"You are not confronted with these misers on a daily basis. And besides, you have always wanted this match," he said accusingly.

"Not always. But then I grew to like her, and the thought of our families being so connected. Besides, I wanted you to wed for love, as I did."

"And you thought if I wed Lothíriel it must be for love, because what other motivation could I have to make that troublemaker my wife."

"And was I wrong?"

"I suppose I made no secret of my attraction in the end."

"Indeed. Although I already suspected it two years ago at Edoras."

What? How?" He had certainly not suspected anything.

"You always seemed to be watching her. Your eyes were following her whenever she left the room, and assessing her whenever she entered. I reckoned you either felt an attraction to her or feared she would light Meduseld on fire if left unattended, and that seemed a little overly suspicious, even for you."

"Hmpf," said Éomer. There was no overly suspicious where Lothíriel was concerned, in his experience. That was another point. He had hoped to bring home a woman his people might accept as regent whenever he rode to war (although Éowyn had not exactly left a very convincing legacy there); or at least someone who could represent him in his absence. But with Lothíriel he felt he must seriously consider appointing a nurse, or just lock her in the dungeons whenever he had to go away. Yes, that would be wisdom.

"Brother." Éowyn studied him carefully. "I hope you will be kind to her."

"What do you mean?" he said, a little guilty. "How can you think I would not be?"

"I was just thinking… Life can be restrictive for women in the Mark. Or it has been so, more than before. Over the years we have celebrated more and more the deeds of war and glory, and yet banned women from them, despite our traditions."

There was a truth to her words, no matter how much he wanted to counter that she was being unjust. "We had to, Éowyn. The line of Eorl seemed to be declining, there was so much loss…"

"So was there in Gondor."

"And in Gondor also, women do not become soldiers. Lothíriel was raised in a gilded cage, more so than you."

"Lothíriel is an exception."

"You were the only woman on the Pelennor that day."

"See, that is exactly your problem. You think I mean freedom in the way of access to swords and shields. No, women do not fight in Gondor, but I have met diplomats, teachers, even blacksmiths, and they are neither sheltered nor taken for granted. One of the healers, Ioreth, was honoured and raised to an order of chivalry by King Elessar himself for her deeds during the siege, and her knowledge of ancient lore. Gondor knows a war is won through more than deeds of arms."

"Éowyn," said Éomer patiently. "Éowyn, I know very well the Riddermark would have fallen without you - and not through the strength of your arms, which I'm afraid to say you entirely overestimate…"

She hit him in the shoulder. It hurt.

"But through the strength of your heart - and the very fact that you are a woman. Trust me when I say I - and the Riddermark - will not make the same mistakes again."

"Women are more than bedmates and breeders."

"I know this," he said, irritated now. "I do not understand why you are suddenly so angry with me."

"I am not angry. I am just… Sometimes I feel so frustrated about all the unhappiness and insecurity I felt, and did not need to feel."

"So are you blaming me now?"

"No! And yes. I know it isn't fair. You are my brother, and I love you. I suppose I just expect so much from you."

Her and the Riddermark and all its people. As if he did not have enough work on his shoulder without becoming some sort of champion for women. And he did care, of course he cared. Anyway, Lothíriel was Lothíriel, not just a woman who needed a free pass on account of her sex.

"I feel valued here for everything I am," continued Éowyn. "That is freedom."

"If you'd been in the room just now, you'd know Gondor is a mess of windbags and yapping buffoons as much as any place in the world. I am glad you found a home here, but you are still a Shieldmaiden of the Mark, and that is something to be proud of."

"I am."

"The strength of the Eorlingas lies in our traditions, our way of life. It just saddens me that you do not seem to see this anymore." Like she had outgrown the Mark. Outgrown him.

"That is not my intention. And you are changing things."

"Because I believe in the hearts of our people. Because I believe we can weather the storm of the new world, and still be the Eorlingas. Don't you?"

"Of course. We want the same thing. Come and tell me everything that happened. I did not come here for an argument. Oh, and Éomer," she leaned back, studying him again with narrowed eyes. "You ought to get a trim while you're here. There is a very good barber on the fifth. Your beard looks like a thicket of barberry bushes."

"Just because you like hairless southern boys does not mean Lothíriel does."

"Whatever you like. Just some free advice."

"I appreciate that it is free, but I think I've had enough of it."

They spoke of nothing for a while, and at last said their farewells in tolerably good spirits. The next morning Éomer found the barber on the fifth level and had the most expensive trim of his life.


End file.
